


falling out of love is hard (falling for betrayal is worse)

by EverythingButTheKitchenSink (ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding)



Series: impossible [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Book/Movie 3: The Death Cure, F/M, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Everyone Except Thomas, POV Minho (Maze Runner), POV Newt (Maze Runner), POV Outsider, POV Teresa (Maze Runner), Teresa/Thomas tag is relevant from chapter 7 onwards, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, movie-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding/pseuds/EverythingButTheKitchenSink
Summary: A few weeks after the newest Greenie, Chuck is sent up in the Box, the Right Arm breaks into the Maze and spirits the Gladers away to the Safe Haven.Thomas is never sent into the Maze.Flash-forward six months, and the Right Arm is gearing up for an assault that will take down WCKD once and for all.Newt and Minho travel to the Last City as part of the assault team, where they meet up with the Right Arm's informant in WCKD, a boy named Thomas who seems to know more about them than he rightly should.
Relationships: Brenda & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minho & Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minho & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner), Teresa Agnes/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Series: impossible [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135337
Comments: 295
Kudos: 244





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this fic is based almost entirely on the movie premise. I did read the Maze Runner book series, but that was years ago, and frankly, a bit too complicated for my tastes. I don't remember much about the books. I liked the movies much better.
> 
> I'm sort of skimming through the Fever Code right now. So I may or may not include elements of it in this fic, with a few tweaks, of course.
> 
> Now onwards!
> 
> I don't own anything.

“Alby. Alby, get up!”

A hand grips his shoulder and roughly shakes him awake. Alby groggily opens his eyes to see Minho’s shucking ugly mug inches from his and gets a face full of Minho’s morning breath.

Grimacing, Alby shoves the other boy away. “I didn’t need to see your ugly shank face this early, Minho. This better be good.”

“Alby.” Minho’s expression is sober. “Something’s happening.”

Alby hears it then. _Thump-thump-thump._ Coming from above them and growing louder. Like the sound of helicopter rotors, or plane engines.

He follows Minho out of the room. Along the hallway, doors are being cracked open and heads stick out as the other Keepers are woken up by the noise. Alby ignores the questions being shouted at him, breaking into a run.

It’s _early._ Early enough that the Maze doors haven’t even opened yet. The Glade is dimly lit, with the sun still hidden behind the walls. The grass is wet with dew, and the air cold and misty. At this time, usually only the Runners are awake as they get ready to run the Maze.

The sound of disturbed murmuring rises around the Glade. Alby hears the rest of the Keepers stumbling out of the Homestead behind him. The rest of the Gladers are climbing out of their hammocks, scrubbing sleep from their eyes.

All of them have their necks craned upwards, gaping as an aircraft descends into the Glade. The aircraft is massive, easily almost the size of their tree grove. For some reason, the design of it makes Alby think, _military_. It lands in front of the Homestead, where most of the Keepers have congregated, sending gusts of wind buffeting against their clothes.

The aircraft door opens, forming a ramp, and a group of men and women in military fatigues run out. All of them are armed – guns strapped to their thighs, hips, across their chests, and slung over their shoulders. Alby tenses.

A man with a gun holster strapped to his chest steps forward. He’s older, with short greying brown hair cut to uneven lengths, heavy eyebrows drawn sternly over his eyes, with a whiskery beard and mustache. The leader, Alby guesses.

The man’s eyes scan the crowd of Gladers. “Which one of you is Newt?” he asks.

Involuntarily, Alby immediately turns to stare at Newt. So do the rest of the Gladers. Newt’s face is pale, still bearing the imprints of pillow creases. His fluffy golden hair is a rat’s nest. His ever-present machete is strapped to his back. He steps forward, limping slightly. Alby makes a half-aborted motion to hold him back.

“Me,” Newt says simply.

The leader’s eyes sweep down Newt, lingering on his bad leg, before nodding. “Name’s Vince. We’re getting you kids out of here.”

Alby opens his mouth, questions bubbling up from his chest. Before he can ask any, they hear a screeching, grinding noise coming from the other side of the Maze doors.

“We have incoming!” one of the soldiers yells, raising his gun. “Grievers!”

“Shit!” Vince curses in an undertone, then raises his voice to address the Gladers, “No time to explain! Everyone into the Berg! Now!” With one hand, he half-guides, half-drags Newt over to the open aircraft doors.

The Glade erupts into chaos as the Maze doors start to open and the screeching noise of the Grievers intensifies. The soldiers ready their weapons, getting into position. Alby, Minho, Gally, and the rest of the Keepers do their best to ferry the Gladers into the Berg.

“I forgot my carving!”

It’s Chuck, the newest Greenie. The chubby thirteen-year-old looks longingly to the hammocks in the tree grove, but one of the soldiers stops him before he can go far, grabbing Chuck roughly by the scruff of the neck like an unruly kitten.

“You crazy, boy? You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“But my carving-!”

“Open fire!” Vince orders.

The Maze is open. The Grievers are here.

Before today, Alby has never known anyone to see a Griever and live to tell the tale. He hopes he’ll never see one again.

Grievers look like giant spiders. Except with bulbous bodies and glistening, slimy skin. They seem to be fused with machinery, with metal spikes, shears, and rods as appendages. They advance in a scuttling motion, like scorpions. Their eye sockets are sunken in and hollow, circular mouths lined with needle-like teeth.

A hail of gunfire rains down on the Grievers and the screeching reaches a crescendo. Someone grabs Alby’s arm, drags him up the ramp, into the Berg, shoves him into a seat between Frypan and Winston.

“Okay! We’re good to go!” Vince shouts, voice hoarse. The soldiers retreat, still firing. “Fall back! Fall back!” The ramp closes, and Vince is hauling ass to the front of the Berg, hollering “Get us in the air!”

Minho and Newt are huddled together right behind the pilot seat, eyes glued to the windows. Alby staggers to his feet, ignoring the hands trying to tug him back down, and moves to join the other two.

The rapidly ascending Berg gives them an aerial view of the Maze – a small square of greenery in the center, surrounded on all sides by the Maze walls. Outside the Maze’s boundaries are more buildings made out of the same materials as the Maze – military outposts, marked with the _WCKD_ symbol… the same one stamped on all their supplies.

There are weapons and artillery mounted on the walls. Most of them are on fire. The rest have collapsed into rubble.

Beyond that is –

Sand.

Desert as far as the eye can see. The same orange color as the sun. Near the horizon, Alby makes out what he thinks are skyscrapers. Or what’s left of them.

A large hand claps Alby on the shoulder. “You kids doing okay?” Vince asks. “Newt?”

Newt doesn’t reply. He can’t seem to look away from the windows.

“Is everywhere like this?” Minho asks, voice hushed.

Vince hesitates. “Almost,” he admits in a surprisingly gentle tone. “There are pockets… places where the people are surviving. Even thriving. We’re bringing you to one of these places.”

“What _happened_?” Minho demands.

“Long story.” Minho opens his mouth to argue, and Vince raises a hand to silence him. “A very long, very complicated story that will be explained to all of you, once we reach the Safe Haven.”

“And is it?” Alby asks skeptically. “Safe?”

“It’s someplace WCKD will never get their hands on you again,” Vince replies evasively. It’s not a _yes_.

Finally, Newt manages to tear his gaze away from the windows and pins Vince with an unsettlingly intent look. “How did you know my name?” he asks.

“The same reason I knew where to find you.” Vince scrubs a hand down his face, one corner of his mouth ticks up in a half-smile. “An old friend of yours made me promise to get you out.”

Newt looks lost. “An old friend,” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Vince has stopped smiling. “You wouldn’t remember him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading this. The prologue is sadly devoid of Thomas, but he's going to make an appearance soon (very soon).
> 
> Don't forget to comment and kudos! <3333


	2. The Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months time jump:
> 
> Enter Thomas!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally got around to watching all 3 movies in December 2020. I finished Death Cure shipping Newt/Thomas like crazy and with a lot of conflicted feelings about Teresa.
> 
> Then I skimmed through all AO3 fics with the Newt/Thomas tag (yes, all one hundred and fifty plus pages of it, I went a little crazy there), and what stood out to me the most was that not a lot of people wrote about Thomas remembering how he was once loyal to WCKD, or choosing to stay with WCKD.
> 
> It's like Thomas just sprung into being one day, a big shucking hero from day 1, and his entire life before his memory was wiped just stopped mattering.
> 
> I mean, there's a lot of guilty!Thomas fics, and too many self-sacrificing!Thomas fics to count. There are stories where Thomas gets his memories back while in Safe Haven, but even those are usually centered on memories of his childhood friendships with Newt, Minho, Teresa, etc.
> 
> No one actually focuses on what Thomas actually DID while he was working with WCKD. Or why he and Teresa were the favorites.
> 
> I mean, this is the guy who was so trusted by WCKD that they gave him access to the location of every one of their compounds, trials, and labs, right? Remember how Thomas then proceeded to hand over those locations to the Right Arm (this is in the Scorch Trials movie)? So, what did he DO to get that trust?
> 
> I skimmed through Fever Code. And fair warning, I might have cherry-picked the stuff I liked but it's not compliant with the book at all.
> 
> Each chapter will be short, 1k to 2k words or so. Because I favor short chapters and quick updates over long chapters and updates that take forever.
> 
> Thank you all for your massive support. Unexpected, but very welcome. Cheers!
> 
> Now onwards!

_Time Skip: 6 months_

The thing about the Last City that stands out to Gally the most isn’t the sheer number of people. It isn’t the buildings and the skyscrapers and apartment complexes that haven’t been reduced to ruins. It isn’t all the shiny technology and cars and trains. It isn’t the lack of Cranks. It isn’t even WCKD’s giant eyesore of an HQ sticking up into the sky.

No. It’s the fact that everything is so _clean_.

In the Maze, everyone was too shucking occupied with the Grievers and the Maze and the Glade to worry about how they shucking smelled. Everyone stunk. Full stop. In the Scorch, they barely had enough water to drink, never mind bathe. Gally could walk around for days covered in blood and sweat and grime and no one would even bat an eyelid.

 _Here_ , though, some people literally smelled of shucking _roses_.

It makes resentment well up behind Gally’s breastbone.

Do any of the people walking around in the streets outside, living lives free of Cranks and the Flare because of WCKD’s patronage, know what goes on behind WCKD’s shiny clean walls? Do they know about the Mazes and the Grievers? The experiments and the tests? The Immunes locked up and strung up to be drained in the name of the greater good?

Would any of them care even if they did?

“Funny,” Newt deadpans. “We spent three years trapped behind WCKD’s walls. Trying to break out. Now we’ve broken back in.”

“Hilarious,” Frypan agrees, his tone just as wry.

“WCKD’s answer to everything,” Gally grumbles.

They’re squatting in an abandoned church, the handful of Gladers gathered by one of the stained-glass windows – the design is a peacock surrounded by roses done in blues and reds. Alby and Minho are checking the ammunition of their guns. Frypan has found some dusty candles and is lighting them with a match.

Newt leans against the wall, arms crossed, hip cocked. The red-and-blue tinted light streaming in through the multicolored glass makes his skin look washed out. There are dark bags beneath his eyes and the collar of his jacket has been turned up, hiding the skin of his neck. His blonde hair is a mess and kind of greasy. He looks sick.

Alby looks up and shoots Newt a look of concern. “You okay, Newt?”

“I’m fine,” Newt says, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

“You look like klunk,” Minho observes candidly.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Newt insists, uncharacteristically irritable.

Almost immediately, he doubles over and starts coughing. He waves off the other boys, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hacking his lungs out.

“Something wrong, kids?” a soldier that Gally knows by sight but not by name asks, peering at Newt in concern. “What’s wrong with the lad?”

“Give him some space!” Alby barks.

Newt is now on all fours. He sounds like he’s choking. Alby crouches down next to him, one hand gripping his shoulder. Newt’s hacking subsides with a full-body shudder, and he looks up. In the flickering light of Frypan’s candles, Gally sees black liquid dripping from his mouth and down his chin.

“Shit!” The soldier’s right hand goes to his gun holster.

Minho is faster. He body slams the soldier, and both of them topple over in an ear-splitting ruckus that immediately draws the attention of everyone else in the church.

“What the hell is going on over there?!” someone demands.

“He’s infected!” the soldier yells hoarsely, shoving Minho off him.

“Christ! I thought these kids were Munies!”

Everywhere, Gally sees soldiers scrambling to their feet, hands reaching for weapons –

A loud _crack_ cuts through the rising din as the door to the makeshift meeting room slams open. Vince stalks out. He’s flanked by Brenda, Jorge, and a dark-haired boy younger than Gally. The stone in Gally’s gut becomes even heavier. Vince has a notoriously strict policy against Cranks in Safe Haven.

“What the fuck has gone wrong _now_?” Vince demands, sounding exasperated. “Some of us are trying to plan a war here!”

“Crank!”

“We got a Crank!”

“That kid has the Flare-”

“Who?”

It’s the dark-haired boy who’s spoken. Up close, Gally has to revise his estimate of the other boy’s age. The brown puppy dog eyes make him seem younger than he is. The boy is probably older than Gally himself, but still younger than Newt and Minho. Definitely younger than Alby. Seventeen years old maximum.

“Thomas-”

Vince tries to stop the boy – Thomas – but he sidesteps him easily, brown eyes going wide when he sees Newt down on his knees, struggling to hold his head up and barely conscious.

“Newt?” Thomas says.

“What?” Gally says.

Newt looks at Thomas, gaze unfocused, then his eyes roll so far back that only the black-veined whites are visible. Thomas moves quickly, catching Newt’s shoulders before the slighter boy hits the ground, gently tugging him over so his head rests on Thomas’s lap.

“Newt?” Thomas pats the other boy’s cheek, uncaring of the black fluid dribbling from his mouth. He doesn’t flinch away from the black veins peeking out from the neckline of Newt’s jacket the way even Frypan and Gally do. “Newt, are you still with me?”

Newt is unresponsive, head lolling. He’s starting to convulse. His eyes – pupil, iris, whites, and all – are Flare-black. His breathing sounds like a crackly paper bag. Thomas reaches for Newt’s arm and rolls up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing black veins like cracks forming in his skin.

Thomas looks up. “Minho, how long has he been like this?”

“I- I don’t know-” Minho stutters.

“I haven’t seen him not wearing his jacket in a few days,” Frypan realizes quietly, voice tinged with a sort of retrospective horror.

“Thomas,” Vince says apologetically. “Thomas, you need to step back.”

“He came here to fight for you, Vince,” Thomas argues.

“I know that. But no one would accept a Crank as part of Safe Haven. I can’t-”

“You can.” Thomas looks down at Newt. His expression is utterly calm as he feels Newt’s wrist for his pulse, then checks his temperature, carding one absent hand through the older boy’s blonde hair. “You can and you will.” He looks up at Vince. “You owe me, Vince.”

Vince holds the boy’s gaze for only a second before he looks away, exhaling explosively through his nose. “God fucking damnit,” he mutters. “Fine. Okay.” He raises his voice and addresses the rest of the church, “Nothing to see here, folks. Everyone, back to what you were doing!”

The crowd reluctantly begins to disperse, though some still finger their guns and cast wary looks at Newt. Gally can’t really blame them.

“Alby, Frypan, help me get him up,” Thomas says.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Thomas,” Vince says.

“I hope so, too,” Thomas says.

Vince shakes his head and walks away, muttering to himself. Alby and Frypan manage to get Newt more or less standing, with an arm slung along each boy’s shoulders.

Thomas turns to Brenda and Jorge. “Get back to the meeting,” he tells them. “I’ll join you guys later.”

Gally holds Minho back with a palm to his chest as the Gladers follow Thomas to the back of the church, where a partitioned area serves as a temporary med-bay. “Do we know this guy?” Gally asks lowly.

“No.” Minho narrows his eyes. “But it seems like he knows us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:
> 
> Thomas is evasive. The Gladers have a lot of questions and not a lot of answers.
> 
> Also, Newt gets stabbed.
> 
> Don't forget to comment and kudos! <33333


	3. The Source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt asks personal questions.
> 
> Thomas stabs him to shut him up.

Alby and Frypan heave Newt into a chair, where he slumps facedown onto the table, fingers curling and uncurling into fists. Alby squeezes the blonde boy’s shoulders, as reassurance or to hold him down if he gets violent, Minho isn’t sure. Gally watches Thomas with suspicious eyes narrowed into slits.

Thomas ignores him as he pulls on a pair of blue rubber gloves. He gets out a syringe, tearing the sterile plastic packaging with his teeth.

Frypan is already stepping forward, pulling up his left sleeve. “Do you need one of us to-?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Thomas rolls up his own sleeve, locates a vein, and with steady hands, presses the needle into his own skin.

“You’re a Munie?” Gally asks in surprise. His ridiculous eyebrows shoot up like a plane trying to take off a runway.

Once again, Thomas ignores him.

Newt’s hands are spasming worse than ever and he lets out a loud groan that draws every eye to him.

Sweat glistens on Alby’s brow. “I thought we were all supposed to be Immune?”

Thomas starts bustling around the interim lab. “And who told you that?” His voice is calm and composed, but when Newt lets out another moan of pain his movements gain a sense of urgency.

“Why would WCKD put him in the Maze if he wasn’t like us, then?” Alby demands, glaring at the other boy with what Minho knows is misplaced anger.

“Alby,” Minho says.

“Why does WCKD do anything?” Thomas counters tiredly.

“Will that help him?” Frypan asks as the other boy empties the contents of the syringe into a beaker containing an unknown solution, turning the clear liquid a pinkish color.

“Not forever.”

“How long?” Gally demands, crossing his arms.

“At best? A few months.”

Gally’s scowl deepens. “And at worst?”

“Hours.”

Minho looks back at Newt. He’s stopped making those agonized moans and groans, but his entire frame shakes silently in the throes of pain. His breathing sounds loud and wet and sticky. Alby rests a hand in the hollow between Newt’s shoulder blades.

“If we had access to the kind of resources and technology WCKD does…” Thomas trails off, shaking his head. “Either way, he’ll always need more.”

Minho thinks of the leader of the Crank army camped right outside the Last City’s walls – his face half-rotted away by the Flare. He tries to imagine Newt in that condition and his stomach rebels.

“So, what?” Minho says. “Is he supposed to walk around with an IV drip in his arm for the rest of his life? Like Lawrence?”

Thomas squints at him quizzically. “Who’s Lawrence?”

“You’ve met,” Brenda says, as she ducks around the partition.

Thomas looks up at her. “Have I?”

“Jorge calls him Voldemort.”

Thomas blinks, bemused. “Who?”

Brenda gestures to her nose.

“Oh,” Thomas says mildly, then he frowns. “Did Vince and Jorge send you to babysit?”

“You’re taking too long,” Brenda complains, casting a lazy eye over the Gladers. “Are these boys giving you trouble, ma’am?”

“Very funny, Brenda.”

Although Brenda sounds like she’s joking, there’s a real glint of protectiveness in her eyes when she looks over the Gladers. She sidles over to lean next to Thomas, all casual-like. But Minho doesn’t miss the way she positions herself as a subtle barrier between Thomas and the rest of the room, nor the way some of the tension leaves Thomas’s neck and shoulders when she does it.

Minho has always liked Brenda. She’s cool and sarcastic. Sly and daring. Violent and _just_ the right amount of crazy. The rest of the Gladers like to tease him and Newt over her because she keeps finding excuses to talk with the two of them.

But watching Brenda with Thomas… there’s trust and history and loyalty there. Like the bonds between each of the Gladers. The kind that’s only forged through risking life and limb for each other on a daily basis.

It makes Minho wonder.

He never questioned why Brenda paid so much attention to him and Newt before now. Never thought about any ulterior motives.

“You know Mary, right?” Thomas is saying to Alby.

“Everyone knows Mary.”

“When Newt needs another dose of the serum, you can get it from Mary.” Thomas has separated the serum into several vials, all of them in various shades of blue. He dismisses most of them and picks up the serum with the most vivid hue, holding it up to the light. “She knows how to make the serum,” he adds, almost distractedly. “She used to work for WCKD too.”

Brenda sends him a sharp look, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

 _Too?_ Minho thinks.

Newt’s head turns so his cheek is resting against the tabletop, face turned to Thomas. One eye cracks open and fixes itself with muzzy curiosity on the other boy. Despite the veins creeping up his neck and the blackish tinge to his mouth, Newt appears lucid. Thomas, who has his back to him, doesn’t notice the older boy’s attention on him.

Minho thinks about earlier – how Vince backed down when Thomas insisted on saving Newt. Vince showed this boy more respect and deference in a single interaction than Minho has seen him show anyone else, ever; how even Brenda and Jorge seem to take their cues from him; how knowledgeable he seems about WCKD –

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Minho blurts out. “You’re the Source.”

Thomas, still holding the vial of slowly clearing cloudy blue serum, does a comical double-take. “Did you just-? Did I just hear you say that with a capital ‘S’?”

Brenda laughs so hard that she doubles over, clutching her stomach.

Frypan’s mouth falls open. “No way.”

“But you’re just a kid!” Alby says.

Thomas mouths to himself, ‘The Source’, an incredulous look on his face. Then he turns to glare accusingly at Brenda. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“I wish!” Brenda chortles.

“Then who-?”

Brenda stuffs her knuckles in her mouth, suppressing laughter only long enough to choke out “Blame Jorge” before she’s overcome by another wave of hilarity.

Thomas closes his eyes as if praying for patience. “Please tell me that’s not what everyone’s been calling me for the past six months.”

“Okay,” Brenda agrees, dark eyes dancing with mirth. “I won’t tell you, then.”

“It _was_ you, then,” Newt speaks up, making everyone except Minho jump. His voice is raspy and guttural like he’s been gargling with battery acid, but he keeps his bloodshot eyes fixed on Thomas. “You were the one who got us out of the Maze.”

“ _Vince_ got you out of the Maze,” Thomas says without looking at Newt.

“Newt, you slinthead,” Alby says, as the other Gladers crowd around him. “You scared the klunk out of us!”

“Sorry,” Newt says, wincing as Alby helps him sit up. “Guess I can’t hide this anymore.”

Frypan swallows audibly, eyes glassy with emotion. “Man, why didn’t you tell us?”

Newt shrugs painfully, ducking his head. “Didn’t think it would make any difference.”

“Then you’re even more of a slinthead than I thought you were,” Gally says scathingly. As always, his concern translates as anger. “What? You have a death wish or something?”

 _That_ point strikes a little too close to home. Minho looks away, schooling his expression into neutrality. And strangely, he sees that Thomas appears to be equally as affected, the corners of the boy’s eyes tightening as he swallows convulsively. When he catches Minho watching him, the younger boy looks away quickly.

Thomas brings out a new syringe, siphons out the now clear blue serum. It’s not a lot, maybe about the same mass as Minho’s thumb.

“All that fuss over _that_?” Alby asks dubiously.

“Quality over quantity, boys,” Brenda smirks. “Bigger isn’t always better.”

“Enough comments from the peanut gallery.” Thomas rolls his eyes. “Give me some space.”

The Gladers watch closely as Thomas has Newt roll up his sleeves. Newt’s arms are a mess of blackened veins, somehow worse than they were even just a few minutes ago. Thomas frowns, taking hold of Newt’s wrist, turning his arm this way and that.

“No bite mark,” Thomas mutters, so quietly Minho’s ears barely catch it.

“What?” Alby says.

“Nothing,” Thomas says hastily, but the furrow between his brows betray his uneasiness.

“We _do_ know each other, don’t we?” Newt says. “We must have if you went to so much trouble to get me out of the Maze.”

“There were fifty other boys trapped in the Glaze besides you-”

“Vince told me,” Newt says.

Thomas’s mouth flattens with displeasure. “Well,” he says, “Vince isn’t as young as he used to be. Sometimes, he gets confused.”

Lingering just outside the circle of Gladers, Brenda lets out a snort. “I’m going to tell Vince you said that.”

“You do that,” Thomas says, perfectly pleasantly, “and I’ll let Vince know just what happened to the first Berg we stole from WCKD and why we had to steal the second one in the first place.”

“You stole a _Berg_ from WCKD?” Frypan splutters.

“You stole _more than one_?” Gally says.

“I know you,” Newt insists.

“You don’t,” Thomas says shortly.

Long slender fingers wrap themselves around the wrist holding the syringe. “But you know me,” Newt says, catching his gaze.

Without breaking eye contact, Thomas switches the syringe to his other hand. Then, without finesse, he jams the needle into Newt’s arm and depresses the plunger in one smooth motion.

Newt’s eyes flutter closed. His fingers turn slack, freeing Thomas’s wrist. His back arches and he starts to slide out of his seat. Thomas steadies Newt with an arm around his shoulders, then waves Alby forward to take his place.

 _Well,_ Minho thinks, _that’s one way to end a conversation._

“Ouch,” Brenda comments, idly chewing her bottom lip.

Thomas touches Minho on the arm and lowers his voice, “Is Winston here?”

“No, he stayed behind.”

“At least that’s one less thing to worry about.” Thomas sighs, shoulders slumping in relief. “The other Gladers?”

“Only the five of us. We volunteered.”

“Of course, you did.” Thomas looks exasperated. “You could never stay away from a fight.”

Minho stares at him for a moment, taken aback by the familiarity, then his eyes dart back to Newt. “Winston is-?”

“Not immune either.” Thomas grimaces, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “Just something to keep in mind. For future reference.”

Newt’s breathing evens out and his eyelids flutter open. As one, the Gladers lean forward, watching with bated breath. Already, Minho can see improvements – Newt’s eyes are normal. Still bloodshot, but with pinkish veins, not black.

“Vince wants to speak to Newt when he’s feeling up to it,” Brenda says, all business again. “If there’s an outbreak of the Flare inside the walls…” she trails off and exchanges speaking looks with Thomas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! Don't forget to leave kudos & comments!
> 
> CU soon! XOXO


	4. The Epic Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorge: What is this? Has Thomas come up with another crazy, suicidal plan?! Say it ain't so!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be all about the Gladers and Thomas, but then Thomas insisted on being too good at deflecting questions.
> 
> Then I also remembered that "oh, yeah! These people are fighting a war! I should probably put something in this about that", so it went in a completely different direction.
> 
> Please subscribe to the Thomas method for avoiding awkward questions - by blindsiding them with information overload until they become so overwhelmed they forget all about interrogating him.
> 
> Now onwards!

Alby makes Newt roll up the sleeves of his jacket until they bunch up above his elbows, and runs his hands obsessively over the clear skin. Minho is just as bad. The former Keeper of the Runner stands so close that he’s literally breathing down Newt’s neck.

“All right, that’s enough of that from you prats!” Newt snaps, at his wit’s end. “Bloody hell, I feel fine!”

“Yeah, shanks,” Frypan grins, unable to hide his utter relief. “We don’t tolerate bad touch here.”

“Thomas said the serum isn’t permanent,” Minho says. “If you start to-”

“If I start to Crank out, I promise to eat you and Alby first, so you two will be the first to know,” Newt says tartly. “Happy now?”

“Not particularly,” Minho says.

“Shove off!”

After liberal application of elbows, Alby and Minho back away so they’re no longer breathing Newt’s air. Thank God.

They make their way through the church, and Newt feels a bubble of fondness in his chest at the way the other Gladers – even Gally – close ranks around him. His friends may be knuckleheaded shanks, but they’re still _his_ knuckleheaded shanks.

Frypan nudges his shoulder. “You look good.”

“I _feel_ good,” Newt says. “Actually, I feel bloody fantastic. Better than I’ve felt in days.”

He feels like he could run a marathon. Like all his blood has been replaced by liquid caffeine. His head feels clearer than it’s been in weeks. His thoughts are calmer and less erratic. His every movement is steadier and surer.

They hear Vince before they see him.

“-no love for anyone in WCKD, but the priority is rescuing Immunes, not-”

Then Thomas’s voice: “And you’re still not listening to me-”

As one, the Gladers come to a stop in front of the closed door, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“-think WCKD hasn’t upped their security when they lost over five hundred test subjects from their own Mazes? Rescuing them and keeping WCKD from tracking them down after is more complicated now! It’s not as simple as avoiding WCKD’s drones or ripping out the chips from their necks anymore-”

“ _Hermanos_ ,” Jorge’s voice says, “as entertaining as this is for us-”

“And it really, really isn’t,” Brenda’s voice interjects.

“-you two might want to table this discussion,” Jorge continues. “Because I can see shadows moving beneath that door, and Thomas’s old friends are probably right on the other side of it, listening to every word we say.”

“Busted,” Frypan mumbles.

Alby shoulders open the door and they step inside. Vince, Thomas, Brenda, and Jorge each occupy one side of a large square table, on which are spread maps, schematics, and blueprints. All of the papers have been haphazardly drawn over with scrawled annotations and arrow marks. Even large X’s done in red ink, like a teacher grading an assignment.

“And you!” Thomas spins around, jabbing a finger at Jorge in an accusing fashion. “I have a bone to pick with you. ‘The Source’? Really? Was it really necessary to verbalize the capital ‘S’?”

Jorge grins roguishly. He’s lounging back with his ankle propped on his knee. “Low hanging fruit, _hermano_.”

“Do any of you know the meaning of the word ‘discretion’? _At all?_ ”

Brenda scoffs. “Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“None of my men are idiots, Thomas,” Vince explains. “The intel you were giving us? The luck we were having? It wasn’t long before a couple of them put it together that there was someone leaking classified information to us. Someone high in WCKD’s ranks.”

Jorge smirks. “You have quite the reputation back home, Thomas.”

“I dread to think.”

“Okay,” Newt says, stepping forward. “Fine. Yeah. Tommy, you’re famous. Congratulations! Moving on. Now, what does a bloke have to do to get some bleeding answers around here?”

Thomas meets his eyes. In the candlelight, the brown hue of his irises lightens to the color of whiskey, almost golden. He’s wearing a dark purple turtleneck that Newt really shouldn’t be finding as distracting as he does.

“We can start with you,” Thomas says.

“Me?”

“When I examined you earlier, you didn’t have any bite marks. No scratches. Nothing. At least, not that I could see.”

“That’s because I _wasn’t_ bitten.”

Alby’s head swivels around to him. “What? You’re saying you just woke up one day and found out you were infected?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Vince, Thomas, Brenda, and Jorge exchange dark looks loaded with meaning.

“That means the virus is airborne now,” Thomas says quietly.

“ _What?_ ” Newt squawks.

“Does WCKD know?” Vince asks lowly.

Thomas’s brows are furrowed in thought. “Isolated cases have been popping up all over the city. If WCKD knows, they’re keeping it quiet. If they don’t, they’ll put it together soon.”

“WCKD will tighten up their security,” Vince says.

“Almost definitely.”

“More security which equals more guns. Yay.” Jorge rubs his chin. “Someone’s job just got a lot harder.”

“Yeah.” Brenda kicks his ankle. “Ours.”

“Okay, I think you guys are missing the most important point here.” Gally jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the door. “Those guys outside. Our people. How many of them are immune? Or have you not thought about that yet?”

“No, I thought about it,” Jorge says.

“And?” Gally demands.

“And I imagine that we’ll all turn into Cranks and eat each other,” Jorge says, “so best not to think about it.”

“You are not helping,” Brenda tells him.

“A bit over half of you are Immune,” Vince tells the Gladers.

Thomas’s head snaps to him audibly. He winces and rubs his neck. “What?”

“Volunteers, all of them,” Vince says. “This isn’t a conscription. But anyone who’s old enough to decide they want to fight-”

“ _I didn’t break them out of the Maze just for you to deliver them right to WCKD’s doorstep six months later, Vince!_ ”

“Hey,” Alby looks annoyed. “Look, I know you got us out of the Maze, and yeah, we’re all really grateful and all. But this is our fight too. WCKD took too much from us for us to just sit it out.”

Unlike Vince, Thomas doesn’t even bother trying to argue with Alby. He pulls up the neck of his turtleneck so the stretchy purple fabric covers his face. Then he lets out a scream of pure frustration. Everyone leans away from him in alarm.

“Thomas-”

Thomas yanks the fabric back down. “I’m fine now,” he says. “It’s not just Newt who could be infected. You three…”

Newt must look perplexed, but Minho leans in and whispers, “Thomas is Immune, too. He used his own blood earlier to make the serum for you. I guessed you missed that bit while you were…”

Minho trails off and pantomimes a Crank – open mouth, rolling eyes, wiggling his tongue in the air. Newt elbows him so hard Minho doubles over clutching his stomach, all the breath rushing out of him with a _whoosh_.

“We can’t leave the city undetected,” Brenda is saying. “Not on this short notice. We planned for a sneaky entrance and a flashy exit. Not-”

“So we move up our timetable,” Jorge decides.

“ _What_ timetable?” Brenda demands in exasperation, before gesturing to Thomas and Vince. “These two can’t even agree on a plan!”

Vince and Thomas turn to each other as if gearing up for another shouting match.

“You boys should leave,” Jorge advises the Gladers, not at all jokingly. “This is going to get ugly. Trust me, you don’t want to hear this. Heck, _I_ don’t want to hear this.”

“No, they should stay,” Thomas argues, earning surprised looks from everyone.

Vince pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s staving off a headache. “Thomas-”

Thomas sets his jaw. “Whatever we decide here, either way, we’d be gambling with their lives. They deserve to have a say in that.”

“Decide _what_?” Alby asks.

“WCKD’s implanted their test subjects with new trackers.” Newt touches the back of his neck, and Thomas shakes his head. “No, not like yours. These are grafted directly into the brain tissue. Wireless. Microscopic. They broadcast a signal as long as they sense brain activity. With that in your head, it doesn’t matter how far you run or where you hide, WCKD will always know where you are.”

Newt feels ill. “And you can’t remove them?”

“Without the right equipment, I’d kill them,” Thomas says bluntly. “It’s an invasive, delicate procedure. And I’m not a doctor.”

“What do you have planned, then?” Gally asks, looking at Vince. “We can’t lead WCKD back to Safe Haven.”

“They won’t be able to follow us,” Vince assures them. “Thomas can give us access to the warehouse where the Bergs are stored. We can take away their firepower.”

“That won’t be enough,” Thomas argues. “They’d still know exactly where you are. You’d all be sitting ducks. It’d only be a matter of time before they come for you.”

“What, then?” Vince throws his hands up in aggravation. “What else can we do?”

“We can go ahead with _my_ plan. Ava Paige trusts me. I can get into WCKD’s systems, its mainframe. I can upload a virus that would corrupt every piece of data on it. The tracking algorithm for the chips? The security system? I can bring them down just like _that_.” Thomas snaps his fingers. “I can do it, Vince. You know I can. You’d already be in control of the Bergs, and WCKD would be vulnerable to attack. You won’t ever get a better opportunity to kill Ava Paige.”

“You’d expose yourself,” Vince counters.

“WCKD would be destroyed. You wouldn’t need a spy-”

“Thomas, shut up!” Brenda says angrily. “He’s worried about your fucking life!”

“You think they’d kill me?” Thomas’s expression darkens. “Because I know they won’t. They’re running low on Immunes already. They can’t afford to kill me.”

“They could drain you,” Frypan puts in. “Wipe your memory and put you in a Maze with Grievers.”

“Occupational hazard,” Thomas says.

Jorge sighs, hanging his head. “What do you need us to do, _hermano_?”

“Jorge!” Vince and Brenda say in unison.

“What?” Jorge looks at them both. “Thomas is going to do what he wants no matter what we say. He always does.”

“We don’t have an extraction plan for you,” Vince says in a forcibly reasonable tone. “Thomas, we’d have no way of guaranteeing your safety.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Thomas says, meeting Vince’s gaze evenly. “I can take care of myself.”

“At least take this.” Brenda shoves a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

Thomas glances down at it. “What is it?”

“The coordinates to Safe Haven. If we’re separated-”

Thomas immediately looks away, shoving the slip of paper back at her. “No.”

“Thomas-” Brenda tries to say.

“Haven’t you ever heard the old adage, ‘you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket’, Brenda? Well, I think this is especially true if that basket spends most of its time dangling from Ava Paige’s arm.”

“This whole plan hinges on you,” Brenda says. “By that logic, if we can’t trust you, we’re fucked anyway.”

“It’s. Not. Smart,” Thomas says.

“No!” Brenda hisses, looking incensed. “It’s fucking suicidal-”

“Listen to me. All of you. This isn’t about me. This is about _them._ ” Thomas points at the Gladers. “This is about everyone like them. It’s about everyone WCKD’s ever taken, everyone they will take. You all sit here, making plans based on assumptions about people that _you don’t know_. You-” he cuts himself off, running a hand through his dark hair. “None of you know WCKD like I do.”

“I’ve been fighting WCKD for years, kid,” Vince says, unmoved. “I think I know them pretty well by now.”

“Not. Like. I. Do.” Thomas works his jaw. “Vince, I _grew up_ with these people. WCKD practically _raised_ me. I work with them. I live with them. I befriended them. I know how they think. You think Ava Paige is evil – but she thinks she’s _right_. She thinks WCKD is going to save the world. And she really believes that. Maybe, if we use your plan, if we play it safe, we stop them. But for how long? Because WCKD _will_ come for you, maybe not soon, maybe not even for years – but they will eventually. WCKD won’t stop. They will _never_ stop – so it’s up to us to stop them.”

Thomas leans forward, dark eyes blazing. Not once has he raised his voice, but his every word seems to reverberate down to Newt’s bones. Newt can understand why Brenda and Jorge and even Vince follow his lead. There’s something inexplicably mesmerizing about him, about the conviction in his voice and his sheer charisma.

Right now, Thomas doesn’t look like a teenaged boy – he looks fierce and blazing and unstoppable. He looks like someone who can take on WCKD and _win_.

“He’s right.” It isn’t until everyone turns to stare at him that Newt realizes he’s spoken. “We have a chance to stop WCKD once and for all. We should take it.”

“I’m with Newt on this one.” Minho meets Newt’s gaze, slanted eyes serious. “I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for WCKD for the rest of my life. That’s not living. If we have a chance to make Safe Haven truly _safe_ – not just for us, but for _everyone_ … I say we go for it.”

Alby, Frypan, and even Gally nod in agreement. Vince glances in Jorge and Brenda’s direction.

“Don’t look at us,” Jorge says. “We do what he does. Just slower.”

“This always happens,” Vince grumbles at Thomas. “You make a speech, then everyone just falls in line. I should ban you from speaking.”

“It _was_ a pretty epic speech,” Brenda agrees cheekily.

“Then there’s the problem of manpower,” Vince goes on. “We don’t have enough people to escort the Immunes to safety, evacuate _your_ people, _and_ launch a frontal assault on WCKD, never mind assassinate Ava Paige.”

Thomas suddenly gets a strange look on his face. “Vince, we don’t _need_ a dozen people to rescue the Immunes.”

“Oh, no.” Brenda stares at him. “Oh, no. I recognize that expression.”

“So do I,” Jorge says, sounding despondent. “What crazy idea have you just come up with now, _hermano_?”

Thomas cocks his head to the side, instantly transforming from ‘Intimidating Revolution Leader’ to ‘Giant Puppy’. Newt thinks it must be the freckles.

“Do you remember the thing with the Bergs and the train cars?”

“Vividly,” Vince says.

“Same concept. But imagine it with a bus and a crane.”

Vince, Brenda, and Jorge all groan.

“You know how to drive a bus, Brenda?”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Brenda says.

“Frypan.” Thomas grins at Frypan, whose expression turns instantly panicked. “I don’t suppose you know how to work a crane?”

“No!”

“Well,” Thomas says, “I hope you’re a fast learner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE:
> 
> Vince: So, that’s the plan. I want one person to drive the crane and another person to drive the bus. Any takers?
> 
> Brenda + Frypan: No way, man! Are you nuts?!
> 
> Vince: Why does no one react like this when it’s Thomas’s idea?
> 
> Jorge: That’s because Thomas is insane.
> 
> Vince: That… is very difficult to argue with.
> 
> Jorge: Monkey see, monkey do.
> 
> Next chapter: Thomas and Newt finally have a one-on-one conversation.


	5. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Newt finally gets some of his questions answered.
> 
> Featuring Thomas's guilt complex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just seem to be getting longer and longer. XD
> 
> Enjoy!

“You brought alcohol,” Alby says in a flat, unimpressed tone.

“Yup,” Gally says.

“In 3 days, we’re going to be breaking into what is quite possibly the most highly guarded place on this planet,” Alby says very, very slowly. “We’re on a mission that could get us all killed or worse… and you just think to yourself, ‘ _You know what would be **really** useful? Alcohol._’”

“Yup,” Gally says again.

“Could we possibly keep it down to a dull roar?” Frypan asks sarcastically. “We didn’t bring enough for everyone. The other kids might get jealous,” he adds mockingly.

“Here.” Gally presses a jam jar, sealed with wax and filled to the brim with amber-colored liquid, into Newt’s limp fingers. “You’ve _definitely_ earned this.”

Newt stares into the sloshing contents, mind racing with everything that happened in the past few hours. Through the opaque liquid, he can see the features of his friends, distorted and refracted like reflections of a funhouse mirror.

“Man, why are we still drinking this klunk?” Minho complains, even as he accepts his own sealed jar. “We know where to find bottles of the good stuff now-”

“Slim it, Minho,” Gally says. “If you don’t want it, you’re welcome to give it back.”

“Yeah,” Frypan agrees. “More for the rest of us.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Minho hugs the jar to his chest like a teddy. “Oh, don’t look at us like that, Alby,” he says when the dark-skinned boy scowls disapprovingly at the lot of them. “We can afford to relax. Just for tonight. It’s been a _hell_ of a long day.”

“You know what, you ugly shanks?” Newt says suddenly. “You’re right. It _has_ been a bloody long day. So I think I’ll be taking this-” with his free hand, he swipes Minho’s unopened jar, “-and I’ll be on my way. Bye, lads.”

“Give that back!” Minho protests.

He makes a swipe for his purloined contraband, but Newt holds it just beyond his reach, shaking it almost tauntingly above Minho’s head. Minho apparently decides that getting up is too much effort because he stays slumped on the floor, shooting Newt the middle finger.

“Hold up, where are you going?” Gally demands.

“I’m a Crank now, haven’t you heard?” Newt says, a bit too loudly because the huddle of soldiers a few feet away send him dirty looks. “If the Flare is going to eat my brain tomorrow, I don’t want to spend what could be my last few hours with you miserable slintheads.”

“Who’s that for, then?” Minho gestures to the second jar, expression surly.

“For Tommy,” Newt says. The nickname slips out before he can stop it. He schools his face into impassiveness and studiously avoids looking at Alby, whose eyes he can feel boring into the side of his head. “Suppose it’s only proper to get the shank who saved my life a drink. At the very least, it’s good manners.”

“Good manners,” Minho echoes blankly.

“Yes, Minho,” Newt says, sniffing loftily. “Good manners. I know we didn’t have a lot of that in the Glade, so you might not recognize it.”

“Huh,” Alby says. His confused expression turns surprised, then knowingly amused, then resigned. “You thought he was cute,” Alby says, “didn’t you?”

“Was he, now?” Newt says mildly. “I didn’t notice.”

“Sure, you shucking didn’t,” Alby drawls.

“I didn’t,” Newt says. “I was a bit preoccupied, in case none of you shanks noticed. And also, he stuck me with a giant shucking needle.”

“Oho!” Frypan grins evilly. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Well, I suppose there are worse ways of spending your last few hours,” Minho remarks.

“Frypan, slim it!” Newt folds his arms over his chest, glowering. “Minho, get your shucking mind out of the gutter.”

“Sure.” Gally raises his jar of moonshine in a lazy toast. “Say hello to _Tommy_ for us, would you?”

The other boys snicker. Frypan hands Minho another sealed jar.

“I _thought_ I heard your dulcet tones, Newt,” comes an amused voice just as Brenda slips into their small huddled circle, nicking Minho’s drink yet again. “What are you hyenas cackling on about now?”

Minho looks at his empty hand sullenly.

“Your cute friend and his giant needle,” Frypan informs her, triggering a second round of juvenile sniggering.

“I’m sure Jorge would be flattered, but I think you’re a bit too young for him,” Brenda says with a straight face.

Frypan chokes and sprays a mouthful of spit and alcohol all over himself. He leaves an unfortunate wet stain on the front of his pants. Newt laughs, slapping a hand on his thigh. He knew there was a reason he liked Brenda.

Brenda nudges Newt and arches a questioning brow.

“I’m getting some bloody answers,” Newt says. “One way or another.”

Brenda tilts her head for a moment, staring. Then she shrugs. “Sure. Okay.”

“Okay?” Newt parrots, taken aback.

“Anything to get Thomas to stop wallowing in his man-pain,” Brenda huffs.

She hooks her arm through Newt’s elbow and frog-marches him away from his jeering, catcalling, asshole friends.

Back in the meeting room, Thomas is alone. The maps and schematics and blueprints have been put away, and instead, he’s bent over a sleek tablet. The light from the tablet screen casts his cheekbones in shadow and makes him look ghoulish. The room is hot and spongey and he’s pushed up his sleeves to his elbows.

Thomas has nice arms, Newt can’t help but notice.

“I come bearing gifts.” Brenda slides one of Gally’s contraband across the table.

Thomas’s mouth ticks up on one side in a half-smile. “You’ve never tried Gally’s brew before, have you?” he says without looking up. He doesn’t notice Newt standing behind him.

“Nope,” Brenda says.

“Well, fair warning,” Thomas says wryly. “It tastes like Griever piss.”

“How would you know?” Brenda pouts. “You’ve never tried it before either.”

“Sure, I have,” Thomas says, and Newt gives a small start of surprise. “We used to sneak out of our dorms and go and get shitfaced in the maintenance room. Trust me, this is one of the things that I actively _tried_ to forget… but this stuff is vile.”

“Well, I’m having some,” Brenda insists stubbornly. “So you should too. For the sake of solidarity and all. It’s no fun drinking on your own – that’s just pathetic.”

Thomas relents. “To solidarity.”

Thomas and Brenda untwist the caps and clink the jars together. Newt waits until the other boy takes the first sip before he asks, loudly, “so is it as vile as you remember?”

Thomas splutters. Brenda hits him hard on the back until he stops.

“Newt,” Thomas croaks out. “When- when did you get here?”

“About the same time Brenda did.” Newt takes a languid sip of his own jar, leaning against the edge of the table. He decides that he likes the way Thomas’s dark eyes linger on the lilt of his hips. “So when you mentioned that ‘we’ used to sneak out and get drunk…”

“I’m too sober for this conversation,” Thomas declares, reaching for his drink.

Abruptly, a dizzy spell sweeps over Newt. He grips the edge of the table, suddenly regretting the alcohol, which he can feel churning nauseatingly in his stomach. It feels too much like the Flare – lowering his inhibitions and dulling his mind.

Newt grips his arm, digging his fingernails into his skin. The tiny pinpricks of pain help him focus on the present. Thomas’s dark eyes follow his movements. At some point during Newt’s dizzy spell, the other boy has moved closer.

 _Real_ closer.

“Is it the serum?” Thomas asks worriedly. “Has it worn off?”

“Too much to drink,” Newt forces out. “I’m fine.”

Up close, Thomas doesn’t look quite so put together. There are dark half-moons under his eyes (which change color from black to brown to gold depending on the light), and his eyelids are pearly from countless sleepless nights. His purple turtleneck hangs loosely around the arms and chest like he’s lost weight due to stress or missed meals.

 _Still pretty cute though_ , Newt thinks, then immediately wants to slap himself.

_What the shuck was that?_

He decides to blame it on the drink.

“Listen, Newt, if you’re worried about Vince-”

“I wasn’t,” Newt says edgily. “But you know, thanks for reminding me, Tommy.”

“You don’t. Need to worry about him, I mean,” Thomas clarifies. “If he can make an exception for Brenda, he can make an exception for you.”

“Brenda?” Newt turns to her so fast he gets whiplash. “You mean-”

“I’m a crank?” Brenda smiles crookedly. “I was bitten half a year ago, and Vince hasn’t gotten sick of me yet.”

“See?” Thomas says. “As long as you get the serum from Mary every few months, like Brenda-”

Brenda frowns at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The serum that slows down the Flare.” Thomas stares at her. “You’ve been getting regular treatment, right?”

Brenda shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“What do you mean ‘ _no_ ’?” Thomas asks incredulously. “When was your last dose?”

“I haven’t _needed_ a second dose, Thomas. The serum you first made for me is still working.”

“Brenda.” Thomas looks stunned. “That was _six months ago_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brenda says, confused. “You said I had anywhere between hours and months, right?”

“That’s not possible.”

“Obviously, it is.”

“No, it’s not. Something isn’t right. I need to run some tests-”

He reaches for his tablet – and misses. Newt catches him before he faceplants on the table. Newt is ever so slightly taller than Thomas, and for some reason, this feels like important information. Thomas steadies himself by gripping Newt’s shoulders. Newt realizes his hands are lingering by the other boy’s waist and jerks them back quickly.

“I think,” Thomas says very, very carefully, “I’m drunk.”

Newt feels his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Already?”

Brenda looks like she’s biting back laughter. “This is normal for him,” she says when Newt looks to her for guidance. “He’s a lightweight.”

“Bloody hell, Tommy,” Newt says, growing amused now. “I think even little Chuckie has a higher alcohol tolerance than you do.”

“Chuck?” Thomas says, and something in his expression seems to soften.

“You know Chuckie?”

“I was the one who gave him that nickname. WCKD wanted to call him Charles and he _hated_ it.” Then Thomas cringes. His cheeks are flushed red from drink and embarrassment. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that. This is why I don’t drink.”

“Ah.” Newt grins. “So you’re a blabby drunk.”

“I think this is my cue to leave.” Brenda snatches up her empty jar and moves to the door. “You guys need to clear the air. And also, I need a refill.”

“You’re leaving me with him?” Thomas says, aghast. “Alone?”

Brenda sends him a thumbs-up. “I believe in you, Thomas!”

“Don’t worry, Tommy,” Newt says with restrained humor. “I promise your virtue is safe with me.”

Thomas puts his head in his hand and says nothing. He seems so dejected that Newt starts to feel bad.

“Look, if you want me to leave-”

“Yes.” Thomas finally looks up at him. His eyelashes are absurdly long for a boy’s. “No.” He runs a hand over his mouth. “I _do_ want you to leave me alone, but Brenda’s right – I can’t hide from you forever… and I owe you an explanation... I owe you a lot more than that.”

“You and me…” Newt stares at him searchingly. “We were friends, weren’t we?”

Thomas nods. His dark eyes are unfocused, either from remembrance or from drink. “You and Minho were the first friends I remember ever making.”

Newt waits for a few more seconds until it becomes clear that Thomas has no intention of elaborating beyond that one sentence. Newt wants to press, wants to know more, wants to know how long and how well and how close they were before he was shipped into the Maze. He sees the way Thomas looks at him like he’s seeing Newt through the lenses of years of friendship – all the good and the bad, every happy memory and every bitter argument. But the brittle look in Thomas’s eyes makes him hesitate.

“Something’s bugging me, though,” Newt says instead. “If you were Immune as well, why didn’t WCKD dump you in the Maze along with the rest of us?”

“They never said.” Thomas pauses. “But if I had to guess… I think we were being trained up as WCKD’s future leaders – Ava Paige’s successors.”

 _I see that worked out so well for her_ , Newt thinks with a sort of ironic glee before Thomas’s choice of words sink in and –

“Successors,” Newt says.

“What?”

“You said successors,” Newt reminds him. “Plural. Are there more Munies working for WCKD?”

“No,” Thomas says, not meeting Newt’s eyes and instead studying his fingernails. “No, just one other.”

“So, this other Munie, is he on our side?”

“She,” Thomas says, very quietly. “And no, she isn’t.”

“Oh,” Newt says lamely. “Was she a friend of mine, too?”

Thomas flattens his palm on the table, very deliberately. “Yeah, she was,” he says tonelessly.

“Oh,” Newt says again.

A tense silence falls between them. Newt suspects that this other Immune is someone important to Thomas. The thought causes a strange squirming feeling in his chest.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Thomas says suddenly.

“O-Okay?”

“Vince is keeping this part of the plan on a need-to-know basis,” Thomas says. “But we won’t just be evacuating Immunes.” He watches Newt with dark, wary eyes. “We’re getting some of the WCKD scientists out, too.”

There’s a buzzing in Newt’s ears. For a moment, he’s struck speechless.

“Why?” Newt asks when he finally unsticks his throat. He can’t quite hide the betrayal he feels at this revelation.

“Because they want out,” Thomas answers. “Because when push comes to shove, these people are more loyal to me than to WCKD.”

“And that’s good enough for Vince, is it?” Newt asks, accent thickening along with his burgeoning anger.

“Yes,” Thomas says simply. His face is like a mask.

“And now you’re telling me this because… what? You’re asking for my permission? Do you want my forgiveness? For the people who helped hunt us down, who helped to torture and kill us for years?”

Thomas has gone very, very pale. “I don’t expect you to forgive _anyone_.”

“ _Then what do you expect from me?_ ” Newt yells.

He’s on his feet, looming over Thomas, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. But this isn’t the Flare corrupting his emotions. No, this anger is all Newt. It’s the three years spent trapped in the Glade – three years of hopelessness and fear. It’s his every memory before the Maze wiped out on WCKD’s whim, his entire life remade in WCKD’s image and for WCKD’s purpose.

Every bad thing that ever happened to Newt, he can trace it back to WCKD.

“Newt,” Thomas says. He sounds so very stricken. “Newt, these people could remove the Swipe.”

“And what the bloody hell is that?” Newt snarls, still plenty pissed.

“It’s the chip in your head that suppresses your memory. The memories aren’t _gone_ – you just can’t access them. If the Swipe is removed-”

Newt recoils. “You want us to let those bastards dig around in our heads?”

Thomas shrugs, a sad smile lingering around his mouth. “You’d have your memories back. Your family and everyone you loved before the Maze – you’d remember them all.”

“Like you,” Newt realizes, staring at him. “I’d remember you. That’s why you want me to do this.”

But Thomas shakes his head. “Newt, the moment you remember me, you will never want to see my face again.”

“You’re not making bloody sense!”

“I told you, your family-”

“Are probably all dead!”

“Not all of them.”

Newt’s mouth shuts so quickly he feels his teeth clack together.

“Newt.” Thomas’s dark eyes are fever-bright, shimmering wetly. His smile is pained. “Newt, you have a sister. WCKD took you both, but they wanted _her_. Because she was Immune. She was one of the people Vince rescued from the Mazes.”

A pause, and Newt can feel his heart in his throat. Not ‘had’. _Have._ Present tense.

“She’s alive.”

 _I’m not alone_ , Newt thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Minho's turn to get answers!
> 
> CU soon!


	6. The Griever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho and Thomas get off to a rough start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that there's a pattern in my chapters. They each start off sort of lighthearted. Then very, very quickly become very serious/tense/depressing.
> 
> *shrugs*
> 
> Onwards!

Minho feels the razor blade of the scalpel slice through his skin and grits his teeth.

“No need to be macho.” Thomas’s amusement is audible. “I know it stings.”

“Yeah, I heard Gally cursing you out earlier from the other side of the building,” Minho smirks. “You enjoyed that.”

“Only a little bit.”

“Shucking sadist.”

“Only when it comes to Gally. He’s a special case.”

“He was always a bit of a slinthead,” Minho says, but with no heat. “Figured it was how he got his nose broken in the first place.”

Thomas laughs quietly. “It’s hilarious hearing _you_ say that.”

“What? Why?”

“His nose?” Thomas presses a wad of cotton against Minho’s wound, seeping up the blood. “ _You_ were the one who broke it.”

“Shuck! Seriously?”

Gally’s ugly nose, shaped like a deformed potato and the size of a small fist, has been the butt of countless jokes in the Glade. That’s Minho’s fault?!

“What did he do to piss me off so badly?” Minho wonders.

“You just… automatically assume it’s something he did?”

“Obviously,” Minho says. “It’s _Gally_.”

“I see some things never change.”

“So, what _did_ he do?”

“Hold still,” Thomas warns, and then the scalpel is back.

Minho presses his forehead into the backrest of his chair, the blunt wooden ridges digging into his skin. It’s not the worst pain Minho has ever felt in his life. He’s been through worse. Much worse. But it still doesn’t feel great. It feels… well, it feels like someone’s digging around in the back of his neck with a pair of surgical pincers.

More importantly, Thomas is trying to distract him.

Something about the topic – about the story behind why Minho broke Gally’s nose… something about it has Thomas feeling defensive and trying to change the subject.

Minho wishes Thomas would stop acting so shucking sketchy. Minho might actually be able to make up his mind on whether or not to trust him then.

Yesterday, Newt told Minho that before the Maze, Thomas had been their friend.

And the thing is, Minho believes that. Shuck, he isn’t even surprised to hear it.

Minho isn’t a trusting person. But the first time he saw Thomas, he trusted him with Newt’s life instantly. With _Newt_. Minho stood by and let Thomas pull Newt into his shucking lap, bit his tongue while Thomas argued with Vince to save him.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision. It was almost shucking instinct, something clicking into place in the back of Minho’s brain like a key turning in a lock.

But everything about Thomas seems too good to be true, reminds Minho too much of one of WCKD’s traps. Minho doesn’t trust it.

Or more accurately, he doesn’t trust how much he already trusts Thomas.

He doesn’t need to ask Newt about what he thinks. It’s obvious to everyone and their shucking grandmother that Newt already trusts Thomas, but Newt isn’t exactly an impartial observer.

Minho saw the two of them last night – Thomas and Newt – speaking quietly together, standing close, shoulders brushing. He’s known Newt for three years, and he’s never seen Newt look the way he did yesterday – radiating a sort of kinetic and feverish energy, eyes crinkling in that way a boy’s eyes crinkle when they really like someone. Something about being around Thomas seems to sharpen Newt, bring him into more focus.

Obviously, Newt’s judgment is shucking compromised to _hell_.

There’s a flash of pain that zings down Minho’s spine as something is yanked out from his neck. He turns, chair legs squeaking across the floor. Gripped in the pincers is something that looks less like a chip than a sliver of plastic. Minho touches the back of his neck and his fingers come away sticky with blood.

“Property of WCKD,” Minho says in disgust. “Tagged like livestock.”

“Here.” Thomas hands him a piece of clean cloth.

Minho presses the cloth to his nape. “You going to stab me with that scalpel if I ask you a question you don’t like?”

Thomas busies himself sterilizing the tools in question. “I don’t generally make a habit of that, no.”

“Newt said the three of us were friends,” Minho says. “What’s the story behind that?”

Thomas exhales shakily. “It’s a pretty short story. We were friends, then the two of you got sent up into the Maze. The end.”

Minho frowns, bracing himself on his elbows. “See, I don’t buy that.”

“It’s the truth.”

Thomas starts wringing the piece of bloody cloth between his fingers. A nervous tick. For a guy who’s supposedly this great spy, he’s shockingly terrible at lying. His face is an open book and he wears his heart on his sleeve. Minho wonders how on earth WCKD hasn’t already caught on.

“You can barely take your eyes off Newt,” Minho says. “But me? You can’t even look me properly in the eye. Out of the two of us, he’s the one who actually has the Flare, you know.”

Thomas meets his gaze, then immediately proves Minho’s point by looking away again. “It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it for me.” A thought strikes Minho and he makes a face. “I’m not like your ex, am I?”

A startled laugh escapes Thomas. “ _God_ , no.”

“Well, that’s a real load off my chest,” Minho says wryly. “Then why the hell are you acting like any moment now, I’m going to turn into a shucking Crank?”

Thomas scrubs vigorously at his fingers, the digits sticky with blood, still not looking at Minho. “Because I’m trying not to be misleading.”

“No, you’re just acting shucking confusing instead.”

Thomas pulls a face. “Isn’t there a limit to how many times someone can use the word ‘shuck’ in a single conversation?”

“No, there shucking isn’t. Get to the shucking point.”

Thomas frowns. “Now you’re just doing that on purpose.”

“Stop trying to change the shucking subject.”

Thomas turns, leaning back against the table, gaze focused somewhere above Minho’s left ear. “We had a falling out near the end – you and me and Newt. Trust me, by the time you two were sent into the Maze, I wasn’t any friend of either of you.”

Minho whistles. “Must’ve been a hell of an argument if you’re still so jacked about it now.”

“You have _no_ idea.”

“What does that have to do with whatever has your panties in a twist about me breaking Gally’s nose?”

Thomas seems to steel himself, then turns his head and finally meets Minho’s probing gaze. “This all happened a few months before the Maze was completed. One day, you and Gally came up to me and Newt and Alby and Ter-”

He cuts himself off.

“You and Gally came up to us,” Thomas says slowly, and Minho gets the feeling that the other boy is choosing his words very, very carefully. Who was ‘Ter-’? “You told us that you had a plan to escape from WCKD. None of the rest of us wanted any part of it, though. Outside, we’d have had to deal with the Scorch, with the Cranks. We thought we’d never survive it. At least with WCKD, they gave us enough food, proper beds, a place safe from the Flare… that’s what we thought. But you and Gally were going to try to leave anyway.”

“We got caught,” Minho says. Obviously, they didn’t succeed if both of them still ended up in the Glade.

“You got caught,” Thomas confirms, nodding. “You broke Gally’s nose for ratting you out to WCKD.”

“He did?” Minho says disbelievingly.

It goes against everything he knows about Gally. Gally might be a Slinthead, and yeah, Minho gives him a lot of grief, but he’s also one of the most loyal people Minho knows.

“According to WCKD, he did,” Thomas says, lip curling with gentle mockery. “But you know Gally. What do you think?”

“More lies?”

“Probably. They punished you for it, of course. It was… gruesome.”

“WCKD torturing kids? Shocking,” Minho deadpans.

Thomas doesn’t laugh.

“They took you into this room with a chair. Bound you to it with rope. I could tell that they’d roughed you up a bit before that because your face was covered with blood and bruises.”

Thomas pauses. His expression hasn’t changed one iota, but something about the way he looks at Minho makes Minho’s anxiety shoot up. Tension and nervousness coil at the base of his spine. His pulse hammers at his wrists and blood roars in his ears. He itches to break into a sprint. Runner instincts are hard to unlearn.

“The maze monsters,” he says. “The things you call Grievers – they were still in the early stages of development then. But WCKD needed a test subject. And then… well, there was you, wasn’t there? It wasn’t anything you did. Not really. That was just an excuse. That was how they justified it – as punishment, as a lesson. But if you hadn’t tried to escape then, WCKD probably would have just picked a boy at random.”

Minho’s skin is cold. He wishes Thomas would just get to the point quickly, instead of dragging it out and letting Minho’s imagination run wild, imagining all the horrible things done to him, all the things WCKD made him forget.

“They set a Griever on you.”

Minho feels every word like a punch to the solar plexus.

“I told you all of this?” Minho asks roughly.

Thomas’s eyes flicker like dying candlelight. “I was there.”

Understanding dawns quickly. “They made you watch,” Minho says.

“You were always the strong one. The joker,” Thomas says softly, his eyes shuttered with pain. “Tougher than me. More reckless than Newt. I’d never seen you so terrified.”

Minho suppresses a shudder.

“You were tied up. You couldn’t even run. You could move your chair, a little bit, sliding it back until you were pressed against the wall, but you couldn’t move faster than the Griever. You struggled, hard enough that you left blood on the ropes.”

Thomas’s eyes are like shadows in his white face. The lilt of his voice is somehow hypnotic.

“And you could see me,” he whispers, “from where I was standing behind the glass. They never gagged you, because they wanted to hear you scream. And you did. You screamed for me. You begged me to save you, to stop them – but I didn’t. I stood there and listened to you scream, and I didn’t lift a _finger_ to help you. I just. Watched.”

Minho can imagine it. He remembers how the Grievers looked pouring into the Glade the day Vince rescued them. He can envision himself strapped down and unable to flee, a Griever looming over him. Helpless. Immobile. A hundred times more petrifying and traumatizing than Running the Maze. He imagines Thomas too, too-large puppy eyes set in a younger and softer face, skin shining with sweat and fear.

Before the Glade. How old were they? Minho wonders. Fourteen? Even younger?

“They stopped the Griever before it killed you. But it was a near thing.”

Thomas’s voice wavers. His head is bowed with the weight of his shame.

“You thought that I was there for you, that I had come to save you. But I wasn’t. And I _didn’t_. And I still remember the look on your face when you realized that.” Guilt scrapes his voice raw. “And I remember it was the _exact_ same expression Newt wore when he realized that I had no intention of stopping the two of you from being sent into the Maze – that I wasn’t just pretending to help WCKD, that I really was on their side.”

What can Minho say to that?

“You were just a kid,” Minho says.

His words sound feeble even to himself. Thomas looks like he’s bracing himself to be hit or yelled at. But even with the horrors of the Grievers and the Maze fresh in his mind, Minho still finds it difficult to rage at someone who looks so pathetic.

Someone who, incidentally, is staring with dangerously miserable contemplation at the scalpel still gripped in his fingers. Minho reigns in the wild urge to knock the blade out of Thomas’s hand.

“You were just a kid,” Minho says again.

“So were you,” Thomas says.

“WCKD would have killed you,” Minho says.

“ _Then I should have died._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Starring Brenda. It's also the last dialogue chapter before the actual action part starts.


	7. The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt gets teased about his kissing skills. Brenda and Jorge bet on Thomas's virginity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually much sadder than the synopsis suggests, and Teresa is mentioned pretty frequently in this.
> 
> You've been warned.
> 
> Also a bit of inappropriate humor, because I'm me.
> 
> My stuff is unbeta-ed, so feel free to point out any grammar mistakes in the comment section.
> 
> Onwards!

The smell is what attracts Brenda’s attention first. Stomach growling, she follows her nose to where the Gladers – sans Newt – are stuffing their faces with Chinese food. Frypan notices her first, raises a hand in a silent hello, then shifts over to make room.

“Steamed bao buns,” Alby says with a friendly grin aimed her way. “Thomas brought them.”

“Smells great.” Brenda inhales deeply. “What filling?”

Frypan’s cheeks are rounded like a chipmunk’s. With difficulty, he swallows. “Barbeque pork. It’s good. I wonder how they make the buns so soft and fluffy… if I use wheat starch and low-gluten flour… but we’re running low… maybe I can substitute it with cake flour…” he trails off, muttering to himself about yeast and proofing time, whatever that means.

Brenda accepts a bao and bites into it. Her taste buds are assaulted with flavor – the salty-sweet pork is rich and savory, and the steamed white dough is chewy and slightly sweet. She eats all the pork filling first before the bun.

“Hey, man!” Alby swats at Gally when he reaches for more buns. “You had three of these already. Save some for Newt. You definitely don’t need any more fattening up.”

“Less than four isn’t a meal, it’s a snack!” Gally protests.

Brenda takes a moment to silently marvel at the sheer quantity teenaged boys can eat without putting on weight. “Where is Newt, anyway?” she wonders.

“Went off with Thomas,” Alby replies.

Minho has been shredding his bao into tiny pieces, expression disquieted. “They’ve been gone for fifteen minutes. Maybe we should go look for them.”

“Why?” Gally sniggers. “Worried that Newt’s dragged Thomas off into a dark corner so he can eat him?”

“I mean,” Frypan puts in, “he might have.”

“Hey.” Alby levels a stern look on the other boys. “None of our business. Minho, relax. They’ll be back when they’re back.”

“Those things are supposed to go in your mouth, you know,” Frypan says, eying the pile of shredded bao.

“Not hungry,” Minho mumbles.

“Is the food ringing any bells for you?” Frypan wonders. “You’re Chinese, right?”

“How should I shucking-?” Minho straightens abruptly. “He’s back.”

Brenda follows his gaze and sees Newt making his way over to them. He looks healthy. Skin clear. Eyes alert. No sign of the Flare. Nothing to even indicate he was ever sick. Brenda isn’t too worried. A single dose from Thomas lasted six months for her. She’s confident Newt will be fine. But that’s not what has her eyebrows shooting up.

Newt’s fluffy blonde hair is wilder than ever, sticking up everywhere like someone has been running their hands through it. His clothes are disheveled, and his cheeks are flushed even though he hasn’t been drinking.

“Oh, good.” Newt plops down and filches a bao from the dwindling supply. “I’m starving.”

“I just bet you are,” Frypan remarks in an undertone.

Newt takes an extra large bite of his bao and doesn’t dignify Frypan with a response.

“You look like you’ve been having fun,” Alby says to him in the mildest, most innocent tone she’s ever heard him use. So much for ‘ _none of our business_ ’.

“Slim it, Alby.”

Alby raises his hands, fighting a smile. “Just making conversation. You have a…” The dark-skinned boy gestures to his head, and Newt tries to flatten his flyaway hair.

“Where’s Thomas?” Brenda wonders, looking around.

Newt frowns. Even his hair seems to wilt a little. “I dunno, actually. He just… ran off.”

“What?” Gally raises his eyebrows. “Did you scare the poor shank off already? Were your kissing skills that terrible?”

“My kissing skills were fine, you slinthead.”

“How do you know? How much practice have you had?”

“I don’t need practice, Gally.”

“Everybody needs practice,” Gally says. “So if it’s not you, then it must’ve been _his_ kissing that was the problem. Was he terrible at it, then?”

“Of course, not!” Brenda says before she can stop herself.

Newt gives her a sharp look. “How do you know that?”

Brenda pretends she doesn’t hear him.

“Did he seem… stable?” Minho asks.

“ _Stable?_ ” Frypan goggles at him.

But Newt actually has to stop and think about it. “No, not really,” he admits. “He was… nervous and evasive and rambling about a bunch of things I didn’t understand… and just basically being bloody confusing all around.” He throws his hands in the air in frustration.

“So,” Brenda says slowly, “in a nutshell, he was being Thomas.”

“Essentially, yeah,” Newt confirms.

“I’m going to go look for him,” Brenda announces.

She gets up and brushes crumbs off her pants. Newt looks like he’s about a second away from joining her when Minho grabs his wrist and says something to him in an undertone. Newt subsides, frowning.

 _No one ever looks up_ , Thomas once told Brenda.

She finds him on the roof, just sitting on the ledge with his legs dangling in the air. He doesn’t startle as she drops down to sit next to him, knocking their ankles together.

“Hey, how mad would you be if Jorge and I made a bet over your virginity?”

He lets out a startled laugh. “Depends. What are the stakes?”

“Custody of Bertha.”

“Joint custody with Jorge not working out as well as you’d hoped?”

“He hasn’t let me behind the wheel since the Berg incident.”

“I wonder why,” Thomas says placidly.

“Hey!” Brenda smacks his arm. “Unfair! You’ve seen me drive.”

“Yeah. The Berg. For 5 minutes. Before we crashed into an _unexpected mountain_.”

“Only at the end! But before that, I was doing okay, wasn’t I?”

“I think you and I remember the Berg accident very differently,” he says, straight-faced.

“We missed you downstairs, by the way,” Brenda tells him. “Minho was concerned.” Pressed up against him the way she is, she can feel his entire body tense. “You’ve been avoiding him since last night. More than you already were, anyway.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Thomas disagrees. “He’s avoiding me.”

“Schematics. What happened? Do you need me to kick his ass?” she asks, only a little bit joking.

He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I told him a little bit of what happened when we were kids.”

“Oh?” She goes still. “How did he take it?”

“About as badly as I thought he would,” he says tonelessly. “I was holding a scalpel, and he must’ve been afraid I would attack him with it because he smacked it out of my hand.” His smile is pained. “It could’ve gone better.”

Brenda frowns. It doesn’t mesh. Minho seemed concerned _for_ Thomas earlier, not scared of him.

“And you also left Newt in quite the state,” she says bluntly. “Want to tell me what that’s about?”

“No, not really.” In the moonlight, the skin of his face looks tighter, his cheekbones more prominent. “But since when do I ever get what I want?”

“That’s the spirit!”

He looks down. His hands are clenched in his lap, knuckles as white as fishbones. “I kissed him. Then I promised to stay out of his way as much as possible after we take down WCKD.”

 _Talk about mixed signals_ , Brenda thinks. _No wonder Newt is confused._

Calm, sensible, rational Newt. She never thought of him as the type of guy who engages in wild make-out sessions with someone he’s known for all of three days. But Brenda knows from personal experience exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of Thomas’s attention, how intense and heady it feels. She can’t exactly blame Newt for getting swept up into his orbit.

“Well, look on the bright side,” she says. “It can’t have been worse than saying ‘ _you’re not her_ ’, can it?”

Thomas groans, burying his face in his hands. There was a time Brenda couldn’t even think about that disastrous kiss without feeling bitterness burn through her tongue. She’s glad they’re at a place where they can laugh over it now.

“I never apologized.”

“You didn’t.”

“I _am_ sorry, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an excuse, but I wasn’t in a good place. I was… I was lost-”

“Lost in Newt-Land?” she teases him.

“Please. Stop,” he begs her.

“Riding the Teresa-Train to Crazy-Town?”

He laughs. “That obvious, huh?”

“Maybe not to anyone else.” She rests her head on his shoulder in a sisterly show of affection. “But I have eyes and a working brain. And you keep forgetting – I was there six months ago, watching you risk _everything_ for the smallest chance to get Newt out of the Maze… and I’m here now, watching you risk exposure every day that you go back to WCKD, risking _everything_ for the smallest chance to get Teresa away from WCKD.” She squeezes his arm. “I’m capable of putting two and two together, you know.”

Thomas’s face turns distant and remote like he’s withdrawn deep into himself, trying to hide from something. His dark eyes are sunken fatigued circles.

“You never talk about her,” she remarks. “With anyone.”

“That’s because I know what everyone will say about her.”

Brenda knows too. _Traitor. Turncoat. Betrayer. Sellout._

“Were you in love with him?” she asks. “Newt?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Are you still?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Three and a half years is a long time.”

“And Teresa?”

He avoids her gaze. “You can’t understand it.”

“Why can’t I?” she demands, exasperated. “You explain the truth to me. And I’ll either understand it, or I won’t.”

Thomas’s body goes rigid. And there’s a long moment where Brenda thinks she’s pushed too far and he’s going to leave.

“Teresa Agnes.” There’s a soft look in his eyes and a wistful curve to his mouth like he’s thinking of someone he loves. “She was my first friend.”

She interrupts him, “I thought Newt and Minho were your first friends.”

“Newt and Minho were the first friends I _remember making_. Teresa was my first friend _ever_. I’ve known her my entire life. When we were kids, I remember thinking that it didn’t matter to me where we were, or who was with me – it felt that as long as Teresa and I were together, I could belong. _She_ made me feel like I belonged.”

It’s like a dam has broken. Now that Thomas has started talking, he can’t seem to stop.

“She was everything that I wanted – everything that I was _supposed_ to want. We were always close, and somedays it felt like I knew her so well we could read each other’s minds. It’s stupid, but I always thought we’d get married – it seemed inevitable.” She hears his breath catch. “Ava Paige saw it too – how well the two of us got along, and she pushed us together at every opportunity.”

 _Teresa was WCKD’s choice_ , Brenda thinks. _Newt was Thomas’s._

Maybe Thomas himself doesn’t think of it that way, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

She does some quick math in her head. “Wait, so you two got together-”

“Pretty much the second after Newt was sent into the Maze?” He runs a hand over his face. “Yep.”

“Wow.” She stares at him. “Dick. Move.”

“It was Newt.” His voice is bleak. “He was my best friend. But I think I always… kind of took him for granted.”

“But you regretted it,” she says. “After Newt was sent in the Maze, you regretted it, right?”

“But that’s the thing, Brenda.” He sounds tired. “I _didn’t_ regret it. At least not for the first few years.”

Thomas smiles wearily at Brenda’s mute incomprehension.

“Being with Teresa. Working for WCKD. I was _happy_ , Brenda.” His voice is a mixture of longing and loathing. “Teresa and I were WCKD’s rising stars. Ava Paige’s prodigies. We were surrounded by all this passion and activity. Every day, it felt like we’d had another breakthrough in the search for the Cure. Everything we did felt important. We were on top of the world. And if I ever missed any of my old friends? Well, WCKD was recording everything that went on in the Glade – Newt and Minho were just one monitor feed away.”

His voice is as fragile as a sliver of ice.

“So, really – Teresa and I aren’t that different after all.”

“Don’t say that!” she snaps. “You’re nothing like her. She sat back for three years and did nothing while WCKD sent her friends up to the Maze one by one!”

“So,” he says. “Did. I.”

Brenda opens her mouth, but the hard lump in her throat keeps her silent.

“You and Jorge and Vince – none of you want to see it. But I need you to understand. When I say I used to work for WCKD, I’m not just _saying_ it. I did what they did. I hurt who they hurt. I designed the Mazes. I put people like Newt and Minho in them – and I did all of that because I believed that ‘ _WCKD is Good_ ’.”

Thomas bends over, elbows braced on his thighs, head between his knees like he’s about to vomit. Brenda knots her fingers in the back of his jacket, afraid of him toppling over and falling right off the roof’s edge.

“Brenda, if you believed that you were destined the save the world… if you really believed, down to your bones, that what you were doing was _right_ … wouldn’t you sacrifice everyone and everything to do it? That’s what I used to believe. That’s what Teresa _still_ believes.”

“But you’ve changed.”

It’s the only thing Brenda can offer him. She can’t absolve Thomas of all his past. They live in the real world, where actions have consequences.

“You’ve changed,” she says again. “You’ve changed. But she hasn’t. You need to remember that.”

“You think I want to feel like this?” There’s a wealth of controlled pain in his voice. “About Teresa? Or Newt? I don’t, okay? It sucks. It sucks big time. But it’s not like having a switch in my brain. I can’t just turn them off and on at will.”

_Bang!_

Thomas and Brenda leap apart. Brenda’s hand goes instinctively to the holster at her thigh –

“Found them!” Gally says loudly. “Don’t you two look cozy?”

The door to the stairs bounces off the wall, swings back around, and nearly smacks Minho in the face. The Asian boy’s eyes dart first to Thomas, then to the edge of the roof.

“Were you about to _jump_?” Minho demands.

“What?” Brenda says. “No! We were just talking.”

Gally rolls his eyes. “Overreacting much, Minho?”

Newt brings up the rear. He smiles wanly at Thomas, who doesn’t return it.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Sup.” Everyone turns to look at Gally, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me. They were both doing it.”

Thomas looks skyward. “It’s getting late. I should-”

“Thomas.” Brenda grabs his wrist.

There’s a sense of urgency welling up behind her breastbone. Irrationally, she thinks that if she lets him walk away without saying something to reassure him about Teresa, he’ll do something rash – which is stupid, because Thomas’s default mode is always ‘Rash’.

“Just be careful,” Brenda says, very aware of the others’ eyes on them. “You sort of have this problem where you can’t walk away from people. Even when you should.”

Newt and Minho. Brenda and Jorge.

And now Teresa.

“You can’t save everyone, Thomas.”

Thomas is dry-eyed and his expression is impassive, almost bored – all his vulnerability tucked away out of sight. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you need reminding,” Brenda says.

Newt’s gaze swings back and forth between them. “Okay, what are we missing?”

“We having a party out here?” It’s Jorge, scrubbing his hand over his eyes.

Brenda lets her fingers go slack. Thomas slides his wrist out of her grip. “Hey, Jorge,” he says. “Brenda was just telling me about that bet over Bertha.” He smirks, eyes darting only momentarily to Newt. “Which one of you bet on Teresa?”

Jorge points at Brenda. “She did.”

Thomas’s lips quirk. “Huh.”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, _hermano_!”

“Well… I’m sure you and Bertha will be very happy together, Jorge.”

“Yes!” Jorge gives a celebratory fist pump.

Brenda’s mouth falls open in despair. “No!”

“Who’s Bertha?” Minho asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!
> 
> I've been pretty much writing dialogue scenes for an entire week, and I'm thoroughly sick of it. Next chapter onwards comes the part of the story where people die. XD
> 
> Newt/Thomas fans... it had to be done. Please don't kill me. Feel free to drop something in the comment section - I'm always open to constructive criticism.
> 
> Teresa/Thomas fans... actually, ARE there any Teresa/Thomas fans reading this? They might have just taken one look at the Newt/Thomas tag and gave this fic up as a bad job. XDDDDD
> 
> BTW, can anyone guess what Minho is thinking?
> 
> CU soon!


	8. The Betrayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subject A2: The Betrayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Sending you mixed signals.
> 
> XDDDDDD
> 
> [edit] Also, for those of you who haven't read the books, Thomas's designation is Subject A2.

“Hey,” Brenda says, pulling Newt aside. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Newt stares at her, suddenly gripped by a nameless resentment. She Who Knows Of Tommy’s Kissing Skills. Maybe Thomas goes around kissing strangers all the time.

 _Tommy is at liberty to kiss whoever he bloody well likes,_ Newt tells himself firmly. _I really cannot care less._

“Yes?” Newt quirks a questioning brow at her.

Kissing partners aside, he really does like Brenda. He hopes she doesn’t want to talk about Thomas.

Brenda disappoints him immediately.

“This is about Thomas.”

Newt studiously zips up his WCKD guard uniform. It’s a bit ill-fitting over his lanky frame. “What about Thomas?”

“I’m worried he’s going to do something rash.”

“Tommy?” Newt says blandly. “Rash? You don’t say.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Brenda says, exasperated. “Just… do me a favor and stay close to him?”

“We’ve been through the plan about a thousand times already.” Newt yanks on his bulky gloves. “And Tommy wouldn’t jeopardize this. He wants to take down WCKD as much as we do. He’ll come through for us.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.” Brenda shifts on her feet and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Thomas is a hero. He’ll always come through for someone else… but he can’t always do the same for himself.” She looks at him. “You being there reminds him that there are things worth living for.”

Newt feels his face heat up and curses his fair skin. He jams on his helmet haphazardly.

“I’ll make sure he comes back,” he promises, voice muffled by the helmet.

“Make sure you _both_ come back,” Brenda corrects him.

As night falls, the church slowly empties. People gradually trickle out in groups of threes and fours. Vince will lead a handful of teams to secure the Bergs and the tanks in WCKD’s hangars. Brenda’s group leaves for the car park to secure their escape route. Everyone else will infiltrate the Tower itself – those teams not tasked with evacuation will station themselves at various chokepoints inside the compound.

Walking right up to WCKD’s front doors is a nerve-wracking experience. Guards are everywhere, watching their every move. Most of them lose interest the moment they pass through the security scanner without incident.

Thomas waits for them by the stairwell. The sight of him produces a kick of adrenalin that Newt finds _bloody irritating_. He’s dressed in monochrome – grey button-up, black slacks, white lab coat – and blends in with the grey walls. The greyscale of their surroundings is reflected in his eyes, turning them steely. With his dark hair and pale face, he looks like he’s been bleached of all color.

Thomas holds a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “They’re here. Frypan, how are you doing?”

“ _Yeah, I’m getting there_.” Frypan grunts, sounding winded. “ _Tell them hi for me._ ”

Thomas looks at the Gladers. “He says hi.”

“We heard,” Alby grunts.

“How are things looking on your end, Jorge?”

“ _Your software patch is holding. I still have control. You’re all invisible._ ”

“Good. Keep it that way. Brenda, what’s your status?”

“ _Status is – we’re working on it_ ,” Brenda says tersely.

“Copy. Make sure you’re ready on your end.”

“ _Don’t worry_.” Brenda’s smirk is audible. “ _You know I’m gonna be there_.”

“Vince?”

“ _So far so good._ ”

“Wait for my signal.” Thomas puts away the walkie. “Follow me.”

He leads them down the stairs to the subterranean levels, stopping only when they reach Sublevel 3. He presses his thumb to the ID scanner, which lights up green. The heavy bulkhead door slides open.

There are five guards in the room. Two of them bent over monitors. Two walking in circuits by the walls, guns in hand. The last one is sitting down, eating a sandwich.

“Sir?” one of them calls out.

His face turns comically astonished when Gally shoots him point-blank in the chest. They’re using Taser-rounds, so the guard is thrown several feet back and lies on the floor convulsing. Caught utterly by surprise, the rest of the guards go down quickly.

Newt and Minho get the cells open and free the kids inside – most of them are around Chuck’s age, all wearing identical blue hoodies and the same meek, frightened expressions. Gally and Alby drag the unconscious guards in a pile, stuff rags in their mouths, and tie their limbs together with cellophane tape.

“Put them in one of the cells,” Thomas says to Gally. “Here.” He tosses his walkie-talkie to Alby, who catches it, looking startled. “Coordinate with Brenda and Jorge. Tell Vince to wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Alby asks.

“He’ll know it when he hears it,” Thomas says cryptically.

“Are you going somewhere?” Gally asks.

“Only one person has complete access to the WCKD’s mainframe,” Thomas says grimly. “To cripple WCKD forever, there’s only one place I can do it from. And Ava Paige’s personal office is on the other side of the building.”

“I’m coming with you,” Newt says quickly.

“Newt,” Thomas protests, “no, you’re not.”

“You can’t do this on your own,” Newt says lowly.

“I damn well can if I have to.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Minho says. “You don’t have to.”

Thomas looks between them in chagrin.

“Just go!” Alby barks, as Gally heaves the last of the guards into a cell and slams the door behind them. “We’re wasting time. We’ll meet at the rendezvous point.”

Thomas stares at Newt and Minho, who glare back at him with equally obstinate looks. “Okay. _Fine_.”

“Good luck!” Alby calls after them.

The offices and labs are located in the highest levels of the tower, on the opposite side of the WCKD compound, as far away from the sublevel cells as geographically possible.

As they ride the elevator, Newt sees Thomas rub his palms together, shivering. Unlike the restricted corridors, the administrative areas are aggressively air-conditioned. But when they step into Ava Paige’s dark office and Newt feels his skin turn to ice, it’s not because of the cold. He hears Minho suck in a sharp breath.

Ava Paige’s private office is massive – a crowd of fifty people can easily fit in this room. A side door leads to a private laboratory. The walls are one-way glass. There’s an opulent lounge area. Steps lead up to a raised dais and a sandalwood desk lacquered to a shine, upon which sits a sleek computer with a black screen.

A miniature replica of the Maze hangs from the wall. In pride of place. Impossible to miss.

Newt feels a slight pressure around his gloved fingers. Thomas is squeezing his hand. “Are you two going to be okay?”

Newt’s throat is too tight to speak.

“Do what you came here to do,” Minho says gruffly. His face is drawn tight with anger, eyes narrowed to malicious slits.

Thomas boots up the computer and plugs a USB into a port. His fingers fly over the keyboard, face screwed up in concentration. The screen fills with lines of code, reflecting off his eyes like tiny mirrors.

Newt realizes that his fingers are clenched so tightly around his gun that a piece of it threatens to snap off. His eyes are glued to the model of the Maze, every detail lovingly duplicated. The source of so many of his nightmares – put on display the way a proud parent might frame beloved pictures of their children or their pets.; a trophy or an award; a memento or a keepsake of a good memory.

The typing noises cease. Turning, Newt sees that the lines of code have been replaced by a blue progress bar.

“We have some time before it reaches a hundred percent. I need to check something in the lab.” Thomas gets up and crosses the room in a few smooth strides. “You two, stay here. Stay out of sight.”

He ducks through the door leading to the private laboratory.

“Every time.” Minho’s voice trembles with suppressed rage. He still hasn’t torn his gaze away from the obscene wall decoration. “Every time I think that WCKD can’t get any worse…”

“I know,” Newt says quietly. “I know.”

“Even the pattern is the same,” Minho says. “I’ve run every inch of it myself. I know it like the back of-” He stops speaking hastily.

Newt looks at him in confusion. But a moment later, he hears it too. The _clack_ of high heels against the floor. He and Minho exchange looks. As one, they reach for their weapons. It can’t be this easy, can it? All this trouble to find and kill Ava Paige, and she just walks right into the same room?

Someone rounds a corner of the hallway – and it’s not Ava Paige.

It’s a girl. Newt’s age. She has a cool, sharp, lovely face. Her long black hair is the color of ink, pulled up in a severe bun. She has on a white top that leaves her arms bare, a long brown trench coat draped in the crook of her elbow, and a polka-dotted bag slung over one shoulder.

She falters when she sees Thomas. “Tom?”

When Thomas sees her, his face turns ashen, like he’s just seen his worst nightmare come to life. “Teresa?”

Newt realizes that the side door hasn’t been properly shut, letting their voices filter in through the crack. Turning to Minho, he raises a finger to his lips.

“What- what are you doing here?” The girl – Teresa – takes several hesitant steps forward. “It’s late. I thought you would have gone home already.”

Thomas swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I had to do some tests.”

“Same.” Teresa looks at him uncertainly. “Do you want me to leave? You and I are the only ones allowed in Ava’s lab, and I wanted some quiet while I work. But I can find-”

“It’s fine.” He does something queer with his face like he’s experiencing a facial muscle spasm. “It’s your lab, too.”

The straps of Teresa’s bag slip from her shoulder and Thomas absently pushes them back up, fingers lingering on her bare arm.

Newt forces himself to look away, his stomach sinking like a stone. The progress bar is at twenty-six percent.

“Sorry.” Thomas pulls away quickly.

“It’s fine.”

Teresa pulls out her hairpin and her long black hair falls loosely around her shoulders. It suits her – having her hair down like this softens the sharp angles of her face and makes her seem pretty. Even beautiful. The thought makes Newt’s stomach twist with something like… like what? Discomfort?

No, that’s not the right word.

The right word is _jealousy_.

The longer Newt looks at her, the more she reminds him of Thomas. The two of them don’t look a thing alike. But there’s a certain nonphysical resemblance in the bluntness of their gazes, the forcefulness in their speech, the underlying arrogance in the way they lift their chins.

Like two people who’ve known each other for so long they’ve started to adopt each other’s mannerisms.

Teresa suddenly chuckles. “What?” Thomas says.

A sad smile plays over her mouth. “I think this is the longest time we’ve been in the same room with each other in… God, how long has it been? Six months?”

He ducks his head back down, peering into a microscope. “Thereabouts.”

“What _happened_ to us, Tom?” she wonders, watching him with an unhappy expression on her face.

“Reality happened, Teresa.” His head is ducked down, hiding his expression. “Just… reality.”

Fifty-nine percent.

“Whose serum are you working on?” she asks. “I think we’ve tried every possible combination with every Subject.”

“As a matter of fact,” he adjusts his microscope, “this serum is from my blood.”

She frowns. “But that serum wouldn’t work, Tom. We both know this. It’s why WCKD never wanted us in the Maze Trials. Our immunity isn’t strong enough to make a viable serum.”

Newt and Minho exchange wide-eyed glances. This is news to them. Newt’s hand wanders to the skin of his inner forearm. None of the symptoms of the Flare have made a return. Brenda’s first dose lasted six months. Thomas’s serum seems pretty viable to Newt.

Thomas’s voice is wry. “A lot of things can change in three and a half years, Teresa.”

“Like what?” Teresa asks.

“Like me.”

“You haven’t changed _that_ much, Tom.”

“I’ve changed a lot more than you think.”

There is silence as Teresa tries to parse through his meaning. Newt holds his breath.

Seventy-eight percent.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you? How if things were just the slightest bit different, we’d have been sent into the Maze just like everyone else?” Thomas asks.

Teresa’s expression hardens. “It would have been worth it to find the Cure.” She sounds tired like they’ve had this argument many times before. “Everything WCKD does is to save us all, Tom. It’s something to be proud of.”

“ _Proud of?_ ” His voice is thick with incredulity. “How? Would you rather I hang a replica maze in my room? Like Ava? People _died_ in those Mazes, Teresa – the Mazes you and I helped build. How in the world are we supposed to be proud of that?”

 _Shut up, Tommy_ , Newt thinks. _Just shut up._

He doesn’t shut up.

“How many people is it going to take? How many people do we have to round up? Torture? Kill? When the _hell_ does it stop?”

“It stops when we find a cure.”

“ _There is no goddamn cure!_ ”

Silence falls, as thick as molasses. Teresa’s eyes are the color of clear blue glass, her gaze sharp as a razor. Newt feels cold sweat trickle down his neck.

Ninety-five percent.

“This is about Newt,” Teresa says.

Newt stiffens at the sound of his name. Minho looks at him, eyes wide with shock.

“You’ve never been the same since he tried to kill himself,” Teresa says.

Newt flinches. Minho’s hand clamps down on his shoulder like a vice.

“That’s not our fault, Tom,” Teresa says. “Newt made his own choice.”

“Because we _drove_ him to it.” Thomas sounds sick with misery. “We did that to him. To all of them. Alby and Chuck and Minho. And Newt – Newt was your friend. He was my-” His voice breaks. “He wasn’t even Immune. But WCKD put him in the Maze anyway. Why? For convenience? For laughs?”

Thomas’s head is bowed, his breath coming in short wet-sounding gasps. Newt thinks he’s crying, but when Thomas raises his head, his eyes are dry, hard and blazing and steely.

“Every person WCKD ever hurt was someone else’s loved one,” he says. “Someone else's child or sibling or friend. Someone's _Newt_. I can’t turn a blind eye to that. I _won’t_.”

Teresa stares at him for a long moment, something like realization dawning in her eyes. “What are you saying?”

He gazes back at her, expression tightly controlled but eyes full of pain, like a bleeding wound beneath the skin surface. “I’m saying I want you to understand.”

She shakes her head, mouth twisting in denial. “Understand what?”

“Why I did it.”

She stumbles half a step away from him. “It was you,” she whispers. “You betrayed us.”

“I betrayed him first.”

The progress bar reaches one hundred percent, and an explosion rocks the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys remember the scene in Scorch Trials (movie) where Teresa tells Thomas about her mother and reveals her betrayal?
> 
> Well, this is Thomas's version of it. In a way, Thomas and Teresa have a sort of role reversal too - with Thomas being the one who lied and betrayed her trust this time.
> 
> I have a THING about role reversal fics.
> 
> What do you think is my ratio for Newtmas and Thomesa content? I'm trying to get a 50:50 ratio. Feedback is appreciated.
> 
> Oh! And I also changed the work title - obviously, each phrase applies to Newt and Teresa. I don't know which is which - both apply to them actually.
> 
> The lyrics are from the song 'Impossible'. The original version by Shontelle - not the cover by James Arthur. Obviously, Shontelle wins HANDS DOWN.


	9. The Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of betrayal. Teresa's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I just want to clarify some things first. In the last chapter's comments, I realized that some of you might have been confused by the Bertha bet in Chapter 7.
> 
> I did intentionally make it pretty vague because I was trying to be clever. I ended up looking like an ass. Sorry.
> 
> To clarify:
> 
> Brenda and Jorge made a bet over Thomas's v-card. Brenda bet on Teresa, and Brenda lost. It's not explicitly stated, but it's implied that Jorge bet on Newt, and that Newt was Thomas's first time (which happened before he got sent into the Glade). I was trying to imply a pre-Maze Newtmas relationship there. Sorry if that was confusing.
> 
> Also, when Newt and Thomas disappeared together at the beginning of Chapter 7, they just snogged. Nothing more happened.
> 
> Hope that clears things up.
> 
> Onwards!

_Teresa first meets Newt when she is ten years old. He is older than her by a year, with a skinny frame and a funny accent._

_They’re not friends. They are friend- **ly**. This is an important distinction to make._

_Teresa’s only friend is Thomas, and she sees no reason to change that. The two of them have always been the outcasts among Group A – the cleverest and the favored ones. ‘The Elite’ as WCKD calls them. It has always been Teresa and Thomas, together against the world. It never bothers her that the other boys shun them for it._

_It bothers Thomas, though, she can tell. She can always tell, with Thomas. It hurts him to be excluded from the boys’ games and jokes. He longs to be just another one of the boys, to be accepted and included, to be ordinary._

_Teresa thinks he’s being silly. Thomas could never be ordinary._

_Newt is the one who reaches out to him first. And with Newt comes Minho, and eventually Alby._

_Teresa is possessive. She can’t help it. Thomas is all she has, the only person she has let herself love since she lost her mother to the Flare. She doesn’t like how Thomas’s new friends seem to monopolize his time – time previously spent only with Teresa in their studies, helping WCKD with their experiments, coming up with ideas for the Mazes._

_Minho and Alby, she doesn’t mind so much. But Newt –_

_Newt._

_Newt is everybody’s best friend. The literal golden boy, with his mop of pale hair. Good at everything he puts his mind to. Unfailingly kind and caring without being boring or smothering. Boyishly charming and universally liked without any of the boys hating him._

_Teresa hates him a little._

_She hates him a lot more than that when puberty hits and she starts noticing Thomas notice Newt – the deepening of his voice, gangly frame turning wiry and sinewy, face sharpening from cute to something like handsome._

_She knows what it means when Newt starts letting his touches linger; when Thomas strays into his personal space; when the two of them disappear for long stretches of time and come back smiling, their hair mussed and clothes in disarray._

_They’re not subtle. And Teresa sees how happy Newt makes Thomas – happier than she’s ever seen him. She’ll never begrudge Thomas that, so she tries to be happy for him. She **does** try._

_Then comes the day Newt and Minho find out about the Mazes and Thomas and Teresa’s part in them. The three boys have a big fight. By the end of it, Newt has to drag Minho off Thomas._

_Thomas comes to find Teresa after he’s discharged from the infirmary, lets her fuss over his split lip and hold an ice pack to his bruised eye. His brows are furrowed and he looks infuriated._

_“Newt doesn’t understand,” he says, with the moral absolution of the young. “We’re doing this for people like him. Like my dad. Like your mom. For anyone out there who’s lost someone to the Flare. It’s bigger than us. It’s more important than any one of us. Can’t he see that?”_

_“You know he doesn’t,” Teresa says._

_She knows this is the end of whatever it is between Newt and Thomas. She feels a crushing weight lift from her lungs like an elephant has taken its foot off her chest. When she touches her fingers to Thomas’s bruise and he covers them with his own, the world feels like it’s full of possibilities again._

_Their first kiss happens not long after Newt is sent into the Maze. For the life of her, Teresa can’t figure out who made the first move. One moment they’re talking, the next moment Teresa’s arms are around his neck, and Thomas has one hand in her hair and the other on her hip. When it ends, he’s grinning like a loon and she feels her heart expand with giddiness._

_The years after that are like a dream._

_Thomas is an attentive boyfriend – sweet and considerate and loving. He doesn’t seem more or less happier with her than he was with Newt. He doesn’t bring up Newt very much at all, seems content to watch him through the monitor feeds in the Glade._

_Everything changes the day Newt jumps._

The memories flash through Teresa’s mind in a series of tableaus: The aftershocks of the explosion. Glass shattering. Thomas losing his balance and falling. Teresa stumbling, slamming against a counter, and the pain radiating from her hip. The door leading to Ava’s private office slamming open and two figures running in, dressed in guard uniforms and sans helmets – Minho and Newt, faces older and harsher and sharper.

Newt grabbing Thomas’s arm and hauling him back to his feet, yelling that they have to leave. Thomas turning to follow him, but not before casting one last regret-filled glance at Teresa.

The images are burned into her brain.

Teresa squashes down the instinctual jealousy, always bubbling so close to the surface these days, of Thomas choosing Newt over her _again_ –

 _Enough_ , she thinks to herself.

This is not the time for callow teenaged dramatics. This is so much bigger than her and Thomas and Newt. The stakes are so much higher than that.

Thomas has betrayed WCKD, that is obvious. He has turned his back on the future of the human race and on everything he once stood for. He led the Right Arm right into the heart of their headquarters, gave the rebels the means to gain control over the Bergs, and threatened the safety of everyone in this city as he did so.

He may have singlehandedly set back their search for the Cure by years, by decades. Maybe even indefinitely.

No matter what his reasons are, nothing can excuse that.

Janson finds her in Ava’s office, bent over the computer. “It’s all gone,” Teresa says, voice tight. “All of it. All of our research. _Decades_ of work down the drain.” Her eyes burn with tears of frustration and betrayal. “Thomas destroyed everything.”

“We’re evacuating,” Janson says. His face looks like it’s been through a woodchipper and he has blood caked all down the sides of his face. “The Right Arm has us completely outgunned – we can’t fight them.”

“I know. I’m saving as much as I can. As soon as Ava gets here-”

“Ava Paige is dead,” he says bluntly.

Her head snaps up. “ _What?_ ”

“Ava Paige is dead,” he says again. “Her and many others.”

“Who?” she demands, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into her palms.

“Let me put it this way… as of right now, you and I are the highest-ranking WCKD members – because everyone else above us in the hierarchy is dead.” He pauses, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he adds, “and they tried very hard to kill me as well, believe me. It seems they have a hit list, courtesy of our mutual friend Thomas.”

Ava. Dead. Teresa’s teacher and mentor. Thomas’s too. The closest thing to a parental figure either of them had. _How could Tom have-?_

Her hands are shaking violently. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut. “That first explosion. Where-?”

“An explosive was planted in the biochemical lab.” Janson’s voice is very matter-of-fact, not the slightest hint of grief or sadness or any other kind of overt emotion on his face. “Killed off most of the department too – Thomas is sending us a message. He was always so excessively dramatic.”

The biochemical lab… where the Grievers and other Maze monsters were grown. Knowing Thomas as she does, Teresa thinks that it’s less of a message and more of a giant ‘Fuck You’.

A thought strikes her suddenly. “He left something here,” she says. “In the lab.”

Janson is reaching for her, but Teresa ducks his outstretched arm and dashes to the lab. The vials Thomas was using are scattered all over the floor in an unsalvageable puddle of broken glass and blood. The microscope he used lies on its side – it’s still functional, and the glass slides are uncracked, held in place by the slide clips.

Whatever it was Thomas was working on, if he risked a detour during such a crucial stage of his plan for it, it must be important.

Teresa peers into the eyepiece. It takes a few seconds for her to realize exactly what it is she’s seeing, and it takes another few more for her to believe it.

 _My blood_ , Thomas said.

 _He was lying_ , Teresa thinks. He’s lied about so many things already, what’s one more?

Except, come to think about it, she doesn’t think he’s ever told her a single lie these past six months. He never lied to her. He just… completely stopped speaking to her. Overnight.

 _He wasn’t lying_ , Teresa thinks, feeling numb with disbelief.

“Teresa!” Janson grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her. Hard. “What is it?”

“He was here earlier,” she says breathlessly. She almost shoves the microscope at him before remembering that Janson isn’t a scientist, and it wouldn’t make sense to him. “Thomas. He- he told me he was testing a new serum – one made from his blood. And it’s not just slowing the virus down, it’s destroying it!”

His fingers dig into the flesh of her shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises. “Thomas is the Cure?” His expression is one of fanatical zeal – he looks deranged. “Are you sure?”

“We need to find him,” she says urgently.

Panic rises in Teresa’s throat like bile. They don’t even know if Thomas is still in the building, or if he’s even still alive, not with gunfights breaking out everywhere in the compound. He may already be out on the streets. WCKD’s surveillance systems are down – they don’t have eyes on _anything_.

“Oh, we don’t have to do that.” He releases her shoulders, shaking his head and chuckling darkly. “Not when we can get him to come to us.”

Janson grabs Teresa by the elbow, steers her roughly out of the lab, through the hallways, and into a room filled wall to ceiling with black monitors – the city surveillance control room.

He pushes her down into a chair facing a microphone. “The cameras are down, but the virus didn’t touch the loudspeaker system.”

She stares at him until she realizes exactly what it is he’s expecting from her. “It won’t work,” she says. “He won’t come back.”

He eyes her levelly. “He will if you are the one asking him to.”

“You don’t understand.” She struggles and fails to keep her tone nonchalant, apathetic. “He has them back now. All of them – the people he’s been missing for three and a half years. What does WCKD have that could possibly convince him to come back?”

Janson just looks at her. His eyes are cold and calculating and menacing – constantly analyzing and dissecting every situation to determine how to turn it to his advantage. “We have you,” he says simply.

Teresa’s breath catches painfully in her throat.

“Talk,” Janson orders.

Teresa’s eyes burn. She swallows against the painful lump in her throat, reaches out unsteadily, and turns on the microphone.

“Thomas? Can you hear me?”

Through the broken windows, she hears her own voice rolling through the city, echoing back at her.

“I need you to listen to me,” she says. “I need you to come back. There was a reason you were testing your blood earlier, wasn’t there? You made a serum out of your blood and used it to save someone – how long ago would that have been? A few months? Longer? You were trying to figure out how long a single dose from you would have lasted, right? You wanted to know when it would wear off.”

She exhales shakily.

“Your serum won’t wear off, Thomas. It will never wear off. It’s your blood. Do you understand? Your immunity has evolved somehow.”

 _Somehow_ , she says, as if she doesn’t already suspect. Turning against WCKD. Spying for the Right Arm. Risking exposure. Risking execution. Risking torture. At every moment of every day for six months, fearing discovery – that was his Maze Trials.

“Your blood is the Cure. All you have to do is come back and this will all finally be over. Please.” Her voice turns soft. “Just come back to me. There might still be a chance for us.”

She mutes the microphone.

She knows that Thomas has heard her, and he knows she is telling the truth.

Wherever he is, he also understands what she means when she says ‘us’ – that she’s speaking about the two of them and not WCKD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted in a few days, and it will be Newt's POV.
> 
> Remember to kudos & comment!


	10. The Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has all the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

“She’s lying,” Minho says immediately.

“She’s not,” Thomas replies calmly. “There’s only one liar between me and her – and it’s not her.”

“How would you know?” Minho demands, exasperated.

“Because it’s Teresa,” Thomas says simply. “I always know, with Teresa.”

They’ve managed to lose the group of soldiers that was chasing them after that first explosion went off – Newt and Minho following Thomas blindly as he leads them up and down stairwells, around corners, and along unfamiliar hallways.

They’ve ducked into an unoccupied lab to catch their breath. Minho looks barely winded. Thomas is clutching a stitch in his side. Newt pants as he leans heavily against the wall, his leg throbbing painfully. Thomas comes over to Newt and squeezes his shoulder.

“How’s your leg?” Thomas asks.

“I’ve had worse,” Newt says through his teeth.

“And your arm?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Newt says.

Although Thomas is looking at him, Newt doubts that he’s really seeing him. His dark eyes are unfocused and absent like his mind is a million miles away.

“Thomas, you’re jacked,” Minho spits at him. “You can’t be thinking of going back.”

Thomas runs his fingers over the pale blue veins at his inner wrist. “All these years trying to find a Cure,” he says quietly. “And it was me. It was me all along.” He brings up his hand to cover his mouth, eyes growing misty.

“We don’t know that,” Minho argues. “We only have her word for it.”

“Newt isn’t sick anymore.”

“Newt’s dose was barely four days ago!”

“Neither is Brenda – she hasn’t needed a second dose for six months.”

“So what? Maybe your serum just lasts a bit longer than anyone else’s,” Minho says hotly. “This girl is WCKD, Thomas. Has it occurred to you that she’s just saying whatever she thinks will make you turn yourself in? You’re playing right into her hands and it’s going to get you killed!”

“Minho’s right,” Newt speaks up. “I think she’s trying to get inside your head. Just ignore her.”

Thomas’s gaze when it lands on him is piercing. Newt has a sneaky suspicion that the other boy can see through him like glass. It’s an unsettling, although not a wholly unpleasant sensation.

But it can also be bloody inconvenient, particularly now.

“You don’t think she’s lying though, do you?” Thomas says, voicing out loud what Newt deliberately left unsaid.

“Does it matter?” Newt counters. “If you go back, and she’s lying, they will kill you, or worse. Even if she’s telling the truth, and you _are_ the Cure… well, what can she do about it? WCKD is _decimated_ , you saw to that. What can what’s left of WCKD do with your blood that Vince and the Right Arm can’t?”

Thomas half turns away, like hearing Newt’s words pains him. “You’re right,” he says finally. “Both of you. We should leave.”

Minho’s shoulders relax in obvious relief. “Good that.” He claps Thomas’s shoulders, then turns to Newt. “You good to run again?”

Ignoring Minho, Newt stares at Thomas, suspicious at the easy capitulation. The other boy meets his gaze squarely, expression placid, dark eyes inscrutable. Newt can’t read him.

“Newt?” Minho shakes him a little. “Your leg?”

“I can handle it,” Newt says.

The door slams open with a _bang_. Minho is half-crouched, reaching for his discarded gun. Newt is still gazing fixedly at Thomas. Both of them are completely caught off guard.

Thomas saves their asses.

He moves almost faster than Newt’s eyes can follow – hand swiping an object from a lab cart, something long and thin and metal. He throws it, and it turns twice through the air – light reflecting off the smooth, sharp edges in brilliant points.

The scalpel sinks blade-first into the unprotected throat of the first guard through the door. There’s a spurt of dark red blood as he claws at his neck, making sickening gurgling noises. He topples backward, knocking into his compatriots’ guns and making their shots go wide.

Minho snatches up his gun, rolls to one knee, brings up his weapon, and starts shooting. Newt and Thomas dive for the shelter of the high counters.

Over the sounds of gunfire and glass breaking, Newt hears someone yell, “Get the boy! The dark-haired one! We need him alive!”

Newt lets his instincts take over. Finger on the trigger. Aim. Shoot. Covering Minho. Duck to avoid the spray of bullets. He hears his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The fight passes in a haze of adrenaline and blood.

He realizes that he’s lost track of Thomas.

At one point, a WCKD guard manages to get in close – he’s helmetless, weapon raised. At close quarters, Newt can’t dodge the shot. Instead, he grips the side of the gun and shoves it aside just as it discharges. The bullet leaves a smoking hole in the wall next to his head.

Newt headbutts the soldier and manages to wrestle the gun away from him. Blood streaming thickly from his nose, the soldier pulls out a knife and lunges at Newt.

Newt is knocked on his back, the WCKD soldier an immovable weight on his chest. Newt wraps his gloved fingers around the blade of the knife, grateful for the thick material of his gauntlet. Even so, Newt is slimmer and weaker than the soldier, and the blade inches ever so slowly closer to his chest.

“No!”

It’s Thomas – he appears out of nowhere and tackles the soldier off Newt.

Newt scrambles to his feet, but Thomas and the soldier are a blur of rolling bodies and he can’t get off a clear shot. Thomas ends up pinned underneath the soldier – both of them are screaming. Abruptly, the WCKD soldier starts seizing, then he goes limp, slumping over Thomas. Newt can hear Thomas making these pain-filled gasps.

Newt kicks the soldier off his friend, none too gently. The body rolls onto its back, so Newt can see the face.

It’s not a pretty sight.

A syringe has been jammed into the WCKD guard’s eye socket. And what’s left of his eyeball resembles nothing so much as pureed raw meat. He’s very obviously dead.

Thomas lies on the floor, half-curling in on himself. The dead guard’s knife has found its home in Thomas’s palm, where it's buried to the hilt. From the wrist down, his hand is coated in red, like he’s wearing a glistening scarlet glove. The sheer amount of blood makes Newt’s stomach roil.

“Guys!” Minho says. “Are you both o-?” He catches sight of Thomas’s hand. “Oh. No, you’re not.”

Minho is more or less none the worse for wear. The same cannot be said for the six dead WCKD guards in the room. Or Thomas himself, whose pallor is getting dangerously pale.

Moving on autopilot, Newt finds himself on his knees, roughly yanking off his gloves with his teeth, and barking at Minho to fetch some bandages. Even though Newt grabbed a bare blade earlier, his own hands are fine, courtesy of the protective gauntlets.

His hands and voice stay perfectly even as he tells Thomas to bite down on a piece of wood. He has Minho pull out the knife. Then with nimble fingers, Newt wraps Thomas’s hand in sterile white gauze. The wound bleeds through the first dressing, but not the second one. By the end of it all, Thomas’s hand looks like it’s been mummified and Newt’s own fingers are slippery with blood.

Only then do the tremors hit.

Newt, very carefully, does not let any noise escape his mouth as he spreads his palms flat against the floor. He leaves brick-red handprints on the grey vinyl tiles.

Minho helps Thomas sit up.

“More of them will be searching for me,” Thomas says.

It’s the first thing out of the stupid shank’s mouth since he got himself stabbed in the hand, and Newt immediately wants to punch him in the face for it.

“Let me guess,” Newt says in his driest, most deadpan tone. “This is the part where you suggest we leave you behind.”

“I’d only slow you down.”

“No offense, Tommy, but I really think we’d speed you up.”

“They want me alive,” Thomas says. He’s shivering, Newt notices. “But you two-”

“I don’t think we’re doing too bad,” Minho says airily. “All things considered.”

“You-” Thomas’s shoulders shake and his eyes water as his face contorts. Newt isn’t sure whether he’s trying not to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

“Don’t be a twat about it.” Newt pushes himself to his feet, then grabs Thomas’s uninjured arm and yanks him up as well. “Tommy, I’m only going to say this once – get off your ass and finish what you started.”

Tommy gets.

By a miraculous stroke of luck, they make it almost to the ground floor before they’re discovered.

“Did you really think it would be that easy, Thomas?” a voice calls to them.

The voice comes from a rat-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair. Newt, Minho, and Thomas freeze as WCKD soldiers come into view, blocking both ends of the walkway.

“Newt,” Thomas says quietly. “Your knife.”

Newt looks at him. In his hand, he clutches the dead guard’s knife, still slick with Thomas’s blood. A single glance in the other boy’s eyes is all it takes to understand.

In one fluid motion, Newt grabs Thomas’s shoulders, pulls him close, and holds the bloodstained knife to his neck.

“Stop!” Newt says.

Even before the words have left his lips, the rat-faced man is already lowering his weapon, flinging an arm out, roaring for the soldiers to stay back. Next to Newt, Minho is as taut as a bowstring.

“Stop,” Newt says again. “Or I’ll slit his throat and you can kiss your precious buggin’ cure goodbye.”

Newt’s bare fingers brush against the skin of Thomas’s neck, and he realizes that he’s forgotten his gloves in the laboratory.

He thinks, absurdly, of a completely different moment not even twenty-four hours ago, when he was kissing into the soft skin of Thomas’s neck and mouthing the vulnerable hollow of his throat, tasting Thomas’s fluttering pulse with his tongue.

He can feel Thomas’s pulse now too – the regular, even tempo of it beating against his fingertips. Thomas is calm. Unafraid.

Newt has him at knifepoint, has just loudly threatened to kill him – and Thomas still isn’t the slightest bit frightened.

Rat Man takes a cautious step towards them. “You won’t kill him.”

“I’m not bluffing,” Newt says loudly.

“Newt.” Rat Man shakes his head like a disappointed parent. “Newt. Newt. Newt… you don’t remember me, but I remember you. I also remember how _close_ you and Thomas always were.” His voice grows in confidence. “You’re not going to hurt him.”

“But I don’t have those memories, do I?” Newt counters tauntingly. “The people we were before the Maze – they don’t even _exist_ anymore. WCKD took care of that.”

“Okay.” Rat Man sneers. “Go on then. Prove me wrong and kill him.” Newt hesitates. “Kill. Him.”

Thomas’s hands come up then. His skin is tacky with his own drying blood, the same stuff crusted underneath his nails. He folds his fingers over Newt’s where they’re wrapped around the knife handle, and he starts to dig the point of the blade into his own skin. From Rat Man’s perspective, it looks like Thomas is trying to pry the knife away from himself. A thin stream of blood trickles down Thomas’s neck and stains the neckline of his shirt.

Rat Man backs down. “Okay. Okay! Stop! You’ve made your point.”

Thomas eases up on the knife. He squeezes Newt’s fingers once. _I’m fine_ , he seems to be telling Newt. Beside them, Minho lets out a barely audible exhale.

_Stalemate._

“Newt, you don’t have to do this,” Rat Man says in an oily, conciliatory tone that makes Newt’s skin crawl. “You don’t have to do any of this. In fact, none of us will stop you and Minho from just walking out of here.” He extends a hand, palm up. “We just want Thomas. I promise you – we won’t kill him.”

“No,” Minho speaks up, voice filled with rage. “You’ll just make him wish he was dead. We know all about what you do to Munies to make the serum.”

“Come now… don’t be unreasonable. All this fuss for one boy? Is he really worth it?”

“That’s for us to decide, ain’t it?” Newt says.

Rat Man slants his head to one side, snakelike. “Why are you trying to protect him?” he asks, changing tacks. “Don’t you know what he’s done to you?” He turns his gaze to Thomas, still and silent in Newt’s arms. “Didn’t you tell them, Thomas?” he murmurs. “Or are you too ashamed? I suppose that after a while, the lies and secrets are hard to give up.” His upper lip curls. “Shall I enlighten them?”

Beneath Newt’s fingers, he feels Thomas’s pulse jump.

“How many boys did you watch die in the Glade before you did something about it?” Rat Man provokes. “Oh, it must’ve been… so many I’ve lost count now. Wasn’t there a boy who got himself accidentally trapped in the Maze on his first night?”

 _Justin_ , Newt thinks.

“And another one… got himself Stung, then banished – but not before strangling another boy in his sleep.”

_Alfred_

_Stephen_

“That boy who hung himself – what was his name? Jory? Joseph? John?”

_George_

“Maybe you haven’t told them the truth because you’re afraid to face it yourself… but the truth we both know is that you wouldn’t have given half as much of a damn as you did – if the boy who tried to jump off the Maze’s walls hadn’t been wearing Newt’s face.”

Newt’s hand gives an involuntary spasm, accidentally opening another gash in the skin of Thomas’s throat. He hears Thomas let out a small gasp of pain.

“Shut up!” Minho snarls. “Newt, Thomas, don’t listen to him.”

“You don’t have to defend him, Minho,” Rat Man goes on. “You might not remember, but he made his choice a long time ago – he chose WCKD.” He smiles, faux kindly. “It’s not too late to fix things, Thomas. You heard Teresa. There’s still a chance – you and her.”

Thomas gives a full-body flinch. It’s the first outward reaction he’s showed. More blood spills down his neck.

Newt loosens his grip on him. And Thomas moves without any warning – pushes the hand holding the knife away from him, spins and shoves Newt and Minho into the adjoining corridor behind them. He triggers the fire alarm and a clear wall slides down, sealing off the archway.

“Tommy!” Newt shouts.

The WCKD guards open fire. The reinforced barrier holds. On the other side of it, Rat Man holds Thomas at gunpoint. Thomas meets Newt’s eyes and mouths ‘ _go_ ’.

“Newt, we have to run!” Minho says.

Cracks are spiderwebbing across the barrier. It won’t hold for much longer. Minho and Newt run for their lives.

Leaving Thomas behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be updated in a few days.
> 
> Don't forget to kudos & comment!
> 
> CU soon!


	11. The Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Teresa vs Janson Show: The Remix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Teresa. Poor Thomas. I'm really starting to feel bad for them both.

The cut on Thomas’s neck has stopped bleeding. Finally.

Teresa has done her best for it. The edges of the wound are red and angry-looking – a single unbroken line drawn across his neck as if with a red marker pen, held together by neat stitches. She lets her hands wander a little, fingers tracing over his slight stubble and the freckles beneath his ear, the even rise and fall of his chest.

She looks up at his face and sees his dark eyes are open and watching her, hazy and cloudy with the drugs still lingering in his system. Probably watching her for a while now.

“This brings back memories,” he says.

It does, actually. Memories back when they were still together and the future still looked bright. Thomas falling asleep at his desk or in front of his computer. Teresa waking him with a kiss to his eyelids or fingers trailing over his jaw.

Remembering stings like salt in a wound.

She pulls away from him as if scalded. “Don’t pull your stitches,” is all she says.

His waist is strapped down to a gurney, his wrists immobilized by his sides. He tests the harness. “Restraints?”

“Janson said you tried to run.”

“I didn’t try as hard as I could have,” he says with asperity. “Janson is just being a dick.”

“You understand if I trust his word over yours,” she says bitterly. “Considering the circumstances.”

“I’ve never told you an actual lie before, you know.” He stares up at the ceiling, expression bleak. “It’s funny. There I was, handing over WCKD’s secrets to the rebels, knowing as I did so that you’d most likely never forgive me for it… and it became important to me that I never crossed that single line.”

“And why is that?” she asks.

“I was selfish,” he readily admits. “I hate lying to you and I’m not good at it.”

“So your solution was just to stop speaking to me altogether?”

“I was afraid you’d take a single look at me and just _know_. Somehow. No one knew me better than you did.”

“I think you’ve proven that that obviously isn’t true,” she says spitefully, making him flinch.

Teresa rolls up Thomas’s right sleeve and fastens a pressure cuff to his upper arm. She finds a vein and cleans the skin with antiseptic. Once the area has been sterilized, she inserts a needle. Blood flows through the tube and into a blood bag.

She presses a white sponge ball into his palm. “Squeeze this.”

“Teresa-”

“Don’t.” She pins him with a cold look. “A lie of omission is still a lie, Thomas.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, voice hollow. “You’re one of the last people I ever wanted to hurt.”

“Well, you did,” she says harshly. “You hurt me more than anyone has ever hurt me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t say that.” She shakes her head. “Being sorry means you regret what you did – but you don’t regret it, don’t you?”

Thomas doesn’t answer her for a long time.

Finally, he sighs. “Do you remember what I always said about what we were doing?”

She does. “You said that some days it felt like all we were doing was delaying the inevitable.”

“And do you remember what you said in response?”

“I told you that the only way all this was worth it was if we found a cure. And we did, Thomas.”

“No, we didn’t, Teresa.” He sounds tired. “WCKD didn’t _find_ the Cure – it was practically dropped in their laps. The Cure didn’t come from any one of the kids we put in the Mazes or whatever else kind of torture Ava Paige came up with… the Cure was all me, all along – the one guy WCKD _didn’t_ put in the Maze.” He squeezes his eyes tightly shut. The sponge ball in his hand has been pulverized. “The kids who weren’t as lucky… the ones who suffered in the Mazes and in the labs – what difference did their deaths make?”

Teresa thinks of the Subjects that were locked in the sublevels, injected with the Fear Serum to draw out that minuscule amount of antibodies needed to create the serums – whatever they saw in their heads had made them scream and sob and beg. She thinks of the deaths in the Mazes – those killed by the Maze monsters, others by the elements… and ones who tried to commit suicide. Like Newt.

If Thomas was the Cure all along, what difference did their sufferings make?

 _No difference at all,_ she thinks _._

Teresa looks at Thomas and sees all her turmoil and anguish reflected back at her from his dark eyes.

“You have the Cure now,” he says quietly. “Can you honestly say that it was worth it?”

She breaks eye contact, shuddering. “We didn’t know.”

Teresa switches out the blood bag for an empty one. Thomas’s blood feels warm through the plastic.

“I don’t expect you to change your mind,” he says as his blood fills up the second bag. “You’re stubborn. You stand by your ideals. It’s what I loved about you.”

She looks at him sharply. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re saying goodbye.”

His mouth twists. “Janson is going to want to hook me up to that machine, you know.”

 _I can protect you_.

It’s on the tip of Teresa’s tongue to say it, but logic holds her back. The fact is, she _can’t_ protect Thomas – not with Janson in charge. And with all the damage Thomas did with his betrayal, all the people who died, directly and indirectly, due to his actions, Teresa isn’t even sure if she _should_ protect him.

“Speaking of Janson, how has he been lately?”

She side-eyes him. “You hate Janson.”

“Sure, I do,” he agrees offhandedly. “But he’s been sick a lot, hasn’t he? Behaving erratically? When was the last time you saw him not wearing long sleeves?”

His implication makes her dizzy. “You don’t think… Janson? He’s Infected?” She thinks about the crazed look on Janson’s face when she told him Thomas was the Cure. “How long have you known this?”

“Oh, _ages_ ,” he informs her conversationally. “I upped the security around the serums, so he’s been getting steadily worse and worse without access to any of it,” he adds with blatant relish.

She feels a bit faint. “He’s assuming leadership of WCKD.”

“What’s an appropriate response to a statement like that?” he wonders. “Brouhaha?”

“Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

“Because I _despise_ him?” he says frankly. “Because I assumed he would eventually sabotage himself? Take your pick. But apparently, his Flare symptoms just got written off as his typical psychopathic behavior.”

“But we have the Cure now,” she says, starting to calm down. “We can help him.”

“Yeah.” He looks put upon. “I miscalculated there.”

“You _think_?” she fires back at him. “We wouldn’t even be having this crisis if you hadn’t arranged to have most of our leadership _assassinated_!” Her eyes brim with tears, but she refuses to let them fall. “You killed Ava, Thomas. _Ava!_ She trusted you! She was like a mother to you!”

“I _had_ a mother,” he says scathingly. “And WCKD took away every memory I had of her. They took away my real mother, my real life, even my real _name_. I don’t get you, Teresa – WCKD dug around in our brains and pulled out what they didn’t like-”

“Everything we are now, we owe it to WCKD,” she says, trembling with rage. “To _Ava_. Our education. Our safety. Our lives. Our purpose. And yes, even our names. Why is that so terrible? We wouldn’t be who we are right now without them.”

 _This is futile_ , she thinks hopelessly. She and Thomas have always been too similar to each other – both of them headstrong and iron-willed and unyielding. It’s what always made them such a good team. Teresa never thought it would one day see them on opposite sides of a war.

“Don’t waste your breath, Teresa,” Janson calls, striding into the lab. He frowns at Teresa when she removes the needle from Thomas’s arm. “Is that it?” He nods at the two blood bags.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Teresa reminds him, drawing out some of Thomas’s blood and starting the distillation process, moving on autopilot.

Janson sneers. “Then get him a juice box.” He starts to cough. “How long will that take?”

“Not long,” Teresa says.

“I admit, Thomas, you took me by surprise.” Janson moves to stand over him. “The attack… the _massacre_ , I should say. You always struck me as being so… sentimental. So much innocent blood being shed… that’s awfully cold-blooded of you.”

Thomas’s smile is less a flash of amusement than a gleam of a knife. “For a given definition of innocent.” His voice matches Janson’s, steel for steel. “And if you’re surprised, you’re an idiot – we didn’t exactly announce ourselves quietly.”

Janson’s face purples. “I expected you to act differently, for some reason,” he says. “A traitor to WCKD and abandoned by your friends – but no, you’re just as arrogant as you always were.”

“I believe in consistency,” Thomas says.

 _Don’t goad him_ , Teresa wants to plead with him. It will only make things worse for Thomas in the long run.

“Do you know what the most galling thing about you is, Thomas?” Janson says. “All these years, you always behaved like you were special. _Unique._ ” He wets his lips. “Somehow different from the rest of the lab rats and those born with the gift. Superior to those of us who had to fight for it, who _earned_ it.”

Janson throws his head back and laughs. He sounds unhinged. All the hairs on the back of Teresa’s neck stand on their ends. Mid-guffaw, he starts coughing again. Black fluid drips from his mouth and he wipes it impatiently away, smearing his chin.

“And you _were_.” Janson’s face is frozen in a rictus. “You _were_ special. You _were_ unique. Ava Paige once told me you were the hope of humanity – it’s such a shame she couldn’t be here today to see how prophetic her words turned out to be.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Thomas asks evenly, eyes glinting.

“Kill you?” Janson leers. “No, we don’t want to do that.” He lowers his voice, almost intimately. “We’re going to take _special_ care of you. We’ll keep you alive. _Just_.”

Teresa cradles the vial of blue serum in her palm – it’s smaller than her pinky. Her blood feels like it’s been turned to icy slush, moving sluggishly through her veins.

“And in return, you will give lives to the rest of us… the ones we choose to save anyway. Of course, there’s not going to be enough for everyone. Hard choices are going to have to be made.” Janson grins darkly. His white teeth are stained with patches of black. “In time, the Flare virus will burn itself out. The only question is: Who will be the ones left standing? And thanks to you, Thomas, we finally get to choose – a future of our own-”

That’s around the time that Teresa smashes a conical flash into the left side of his neck – right on the central nerve. Janson goes down like a house of cards. Thomas is staring at her – he looks as astonished as she feels.

He opens his mouth to say something and she holds up a single hand. His mouth snaps shut with an audible _click_. “Be quiet,” she snaps at him.

Thomas, being Thomas, doesn’t listen. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to decide whether or not I should untie you,” she says grimly.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Janson’s right about one thing,” he says. “There’s not going to enough for everyone, even if you bleed me dry. You can’t save them all.”

“But I can save some of them,” she counters. “Better to fail in doing the right thing than to succeed in doing the wrong.”

Thomas’s expression softens with pride and fondness and something else that makes Teresa’s heart ache.

“Stop it!” she snarls at him. “Stop looking at me like that! I’m only doing what Ava would have wanted me to do. WCKD never played God-”

The affection bleeds out of his eyes, turning them hard and flinty again. “Funny,” he says coolly. “That’s all I seem to remember them doing.”

“Tom, I don’t want to start this again,” she says, suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of tiredness. They always end up talking in circles around this topic. “If I was in charge of WCKD,” she says slowly, “would you trust me with the Cure?”

He gives her a searching look. “I think you’ll do a better job with it than Janson. Or Ava.” His mouth twists ruefully. “But being better than Janson and Ava doesn’t say much.”

Teresa swallows down the instinctive defense on behalf of her dead mentor – it won’t be productive.

“People are dying,” she says. “The world is dying. I want to save as many people as I can – and that means using your blood to create the Cure… with or without your cooperation.”

Teresa looks at Thomas and doesn’t see the boy who brought her entire world crashing down in a single night – she sees the boy who she’s known and loved her entire life, the boy as essential to her being as one of her vital organs.

“It’s what we’ve been dreaming of doing ever since we were kids, Tom,” she reminds him gently. “Finding the Cure. Saving the world.”

A beat.

“I won’t run,” he promises.

Teresa’s extremities go numb with relief, and it takes a few fumbling attempts to free Thomas from his bindings. He’s weak from blood loss and unsteady on his feet. She lets him lean against her while he wheezes, his breath stirring her long black hair.

Suddenly, he says, “Sometimes I wonder where we’d be if Newt had never tried to jump… if I’d never lost faith in WCKD… how much less complicated our lives would be now.”

 _And we would have never discovered the Cure,_ Teresa thinks.

“Do you ever wonder about what would’ve happened if you’d never met Newt?” she says.

“No,” he says. “Never.”

Teresa nods in acceptance.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” she tells him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you, or trust you again. I don’t know if I can. But I want to try, Tom. _I want to try_.”

His smile is watery. “Me too.”

That is when Teresa sees him and her eyes go wide – a silent, eerily still figure standing right where he fell. Janson turns, and she sees black goo oozing from his ears and eyes, his nose and mouth.

The Crank screeches, wild and animalistic, and lunges at Teresa. It doesn’t even try to swipe the Cure from her – consumed utterly by the savage urge to attack and kill and bite.

Teresa’s head slams into something solid and her world erupts in pain. She can smell the stank of the crank’s breath. It’s all she can do to keep its wildly snapping jaws away from her. Thomas calls her name, his voice loud and desperate. Then the crank is gone. Teresa hears the sound of glass shattering and calls out for Tom, just once.

She hears a single, solitary gunshot.

Somewhere, there are voices. Then the sound of several sets of footsteps growing fainter and fainter. Teresa pulls herself up with a table leg. Through the glass walls of the lab, she sees Janson’s body lying in the hallway, and Thomas practically being dragged away by two men in WCKD uniforms – one of them walks with a limp.

Her skull feels like it’s been cracked in half. Tears of pain stream from her eyes. As Teresa watches Thomas walk away from her for what is possibly the last time, she knows that he is breaking his promise not to run and that he will not come back for her – not for his own sake, but for Minho and Newt, who will never abandon Thomas to WCKD as long as they live. And Thomas will never let WCKD get its hands on either of them again.

Every inch of her body aches as she climbs shakily to her feet. The tiny vial of blue serum is still clutched in her fist, undamaged. She has two units of Thomas’s blood remaining.

It’s not enough. But she’ll make do – she always does.

 _Time to get to work_ , she thinks. _The world won’t save itself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was originally supposed to be a torture scene in this. Because Janson. But I didn't want this chapter to get even longer, and you know, Thomas already has enough to deal with - blood loss and emotional torture and etc.
> 
> What happened to Janson is known as the butterfly effect. Because Thomas was there to mess with him, Janson couldn't get the serum to slow down his Infection, and so his Flare is at a more advanced stage. Also, I despise Janson. So Janson gets turned into a crank and doesn't try and shoot Thomas and/or Teresa.
> 
> Teresa will be back.


	12. The Missing Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alby: If Thomas told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?
> 
> Newt + Minho: YES!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really long chapter. 3K words. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be as long.
> 
> Just realized that the last 4 chapters have ended in mini cliffys. Sadly, I've now broken that streak.
> 
> Onwards! Enjoy! XD

“We should be safe for a while in here,” Minho says.

They’ve ended up in an out of the way storage room. There’s a light coating of dust on every surface, pretty like grey frost, so Newt is confident they won’t be found for a bit.

Thomas is sitting slumped against the wall. His face is grey, the color of stale porridge, whether due to dread or lack of blood, Newt doesn’t know. He’s watching Newt and Minho with an expression of mute, bleak horror, like the two of them are his worst nightmares come to life.

“What are you two doing here?” Thomas asks, in a voice so strangled that it’s barely recognizable as his.

“What does it look like we’re doing, slinthead?” Minho says. “We’re here to get your dumb ass out.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Thomas looks at them like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. “God. Why do you two always do this? You _idiots_. Why don’t either of you ever _think_?”

“We _did_ think,” Newt says, nettled. “We were thinking of you being strung up and tortured and drained.”

“So, you know,” Minho adds irritably. “You’re welcome.”

“I had it handled.”

“Yeah?” Minho pins him with a flat, unimpressed look. “Cuz it looked to me like you were about to get eaten by Rat Man. Was _that_ why he was so jacked?”

“No,” Thomas says. “He was pretty much always that unhinged.”

“What were _you_ thinking?” Newt demands. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry.

“Newt, listen-”

“No, _you_ listen, you bollockin’, buggerin’, suicidal nutter-”

“It was the only way for you and Minho to escape-”

“Yeah, pull the other one,” Newt says scornfully. “It has bells on it. I know you could’ve pulled that trick with the alarm with all of us on the other side of that barrier. Do I _look_ that blonde?”

“You look pretty blonde, yeah.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Tommy,” Newt snaps. “Why on earth do you want to go back so badly? You know… better than anyone, you know what’s going to happen to you if you give yourself up.”

“But I’m just one person, Newt,” Thomas says tiredly. “One person. If it means saving the world, saving people like you and Brenda-”

“Do _not_ use me as justification-” Newt begins hotly.

“One life,” Thomas insists. “One life versus _thousands-_ ”

“That’s the exact same reasoning WCKD used when they tortured _us_ ,” Minho argues.

“This is different.”

“How?” Minho demands, exasperated.

“Because it’s _me_.”

“Thomas.” Minho squats down so they’re at eye-level with each other. “I am going to make sure all three of us make it out of here – even if I have to knock you out and throw you over my shoulder to do it.”

Thomas picks himself up. “I’m not going.”

“All right, that settles it,” Newt decides, wiping his palms on his pant legs. “ _You_.” He points at Tommy. “You don’t get to make the decisions anymore.”

“Newt, if I go with you, I could jeopardize everything the Right Arm has built. I’ll only be painting an even bigger target on your back-”

“WCKD is gone,” Minho says.

“I am not,” Thomas says. “Talking about WCKD.” He scrubs at his eyes. “Teresa broadcasted over the whole city. Everyone heard it.”

“Yeah?” Minho says. “And?”

“Minho… _everyone_ heard it. Not just WCKD. The people in the City. The Cranks outside the walls. _Everyone_. How long until the news spreads? Other groups, like the one led by Lawrence… they’ll never, _ever_ stop trying to find me.” Thomas’s voice shakes. For the first time, Newt realizes how frightened the other boy is. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life like this,” he whispers.

“So you’re giving up,” Newt says.

“I am not-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Newt says. He grips Tommy’s wrists hard enough that it makes him wince. “You’re giving up. You won’t admit it, but you are.”

Thomas struggles to pull away. “It’s my life, Newt.”

“And I’m trying to make sure you _live_ it,” Newt spits back.

Thomas finally wrenches free. He backs away from Newt, massaging his wrists. Newt can see by the mulish jut of Thomas’s chin that they haven’t convinced him.

“Minho,” Newt says.

Clearly, appealing to Thomas’s sense of self-preservation isn’t working.

Luckily, they can exploit his giant guilt complex.

“Thomas,” Minho says calmly. “We’re not leaving without you. If you want to stand here and chat until WCKD finds us, and Newt and I end up as their prisoners – that’s on you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What will it be, then?” Minho asks challengingly.

Thomas’s shoulders slump in defeat. “What’s the plan then?”

“The plan was to find you,” Minho says.

“And then?”

“And then we make a new plan.”

“We have Bergs coming out of our ears,” Newt says. “If we could get to the roof. Send a flare-”

“Teresa will be expecting that. We’ll have to go down. If she’s smart – and she is – she’ll have the soldiers concentrated on the top levels, blocking off our escape routes and buying time for the evacuation… which means our guys are in the bottom levels.”

“There are more than twenty floors between us and them,” Newt reminds him. “We’ll never make it.”

“I wasn’t planning on taking the stairs.”

Thomas wanders over to the large picture windows. As nice as it is to see him taking an active interest in their continued survival, the contemplative look on his face as he peers down at the sheer drop outside makes Newt uneasy. Thomas isn’t an idiot. On the contrary, he’s one of the most brilliant people Newt has ever met. All the same –

“Tommy,” Newt feels the need to warn him, “You know humans can’t fly right?”

The oxygen tank makes a perfect hole through the fixed-pane window. It plummets like a stone, flipping end over end, until it hits the surface of the fountain pool’s surface with a _pa-thunk_ and a spray of water. The broken glass cascades across the floor like a silvery shower of icy shards.

Thomas leans fearlessly through the hole in the picture window, watching the descent of the tank with a sort of detached, intellectual interest. Newt imagines that underneath his pretty brown hair, Thomas’s mind is racing.

“Okay,” Thomas says mildly. “It’s doable.”

“You’re _joking_ ,” Minho says.

They’re twenty stories high. At least. The ground looks very, very far below them. From their vantage point, the pool is only a small dark green square. The last time Newt was this high up –

His vision swims. A wave of vertigo washes over him and he leans back hastily, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

“How deep is that pool anyway?” Minho is asking.

“Deep enough that falling into it should be survivable,” Thomas replies.

“ _Should_ be survivable?”

“How do you feel about _barely_ survivable?”

Thomas grabs a chair and breaks off the large pieces of jagged glass still clinging to its frame. Then the three of them duck behind the oxygen tanks and try to breathe as quietly as they can, waiting for someone to wander in.

“If we die here,” Minho hisses to Tommy. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Just remember to leave one of them alive.”

“What’s the pen for?” Minho asks.

Thomas is gripping a blue ink pen so tightly his fingers have turned white and bloodless. “In case they put up a fight.”

“What are you going to do with that? Autograph their guns?” Minho snarks. But Newt, remembering just what kind of damage Tommy can do with a scalpel and a syringe, gives his friend a quelling look.

“Shh!” Newt says. “I can hear them coming!”

Running footsteps approach, and five WCKD soldiers burst into the room. Newt stops breathing entirely. Minho has a hand clapped over his mouth and nose. The three boys crouch lower, all but plastering themselves to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. Newt can feel Minho’s elbow digging painfully into his ribs and Thomas’s breath tickling the back of his neck – he finds that one of them is more distracting than the other.

“They jumped!” a deep baritone voice shouts.

“Shit! Did they survive?”

“We have to go down!”

“With the Right Arm riding our asses? We’d never make it before they get away!”

Through the gaps between the oxygen tanks, Newt sees two soldiers leaving. The group is down to three. It’s the best chance they’re going to have.

Thomas has gone still – something about the way he holds himself seems somehow predatory, like a lion preparing to pounce on a herd of gazelle. Newt swallows and looks away, his face hot.

_Not the time_ , he scolds himself.

Exchanging a silent look with Minho, the two of them move to crouching positions and take aim.

_Bang-bang!_

The first two guards go down to headshots. In the time it takes for Newt to reload, the third seems to realize what’s happening. The soldier kicks over an oxygen tank, and Minho yells as his arm is pinned down. Newt raises his gun, finger hovering over the trigger, but the soldier is too close and moving too rapidly –

Thomas intercepts him. He doesn’t go for the eyes or the throat. Instead, his arm makes an arch through the air and drives the pen deep into the crook of the soldier’s elbow. The man screams. Thomas drags him to the gaping window pane and bodily throws him over the ledge. The guard shrieks the entire way down, arms windmilling. He hits the surface of the pool with a giant splash.

Newt helps shift the oxygen tank and Minho pulls his arm free, wincing and clutching his shoulder. They get to their feet and join Thomas at the window ledge.

“Shuck, Thomas,” Minho says. “I thought you said you needed one of them alive.”

“I did.”

Hundreds of feet below, the soldier surfaces from the pool and starts to swim – his head a tiny black dot moving closer to the edge of the watery green square.

“Like I said.” Thomas looks pointedly at Minho. “Survivable.”

Newt reminds himself that not everything Tommy does is insane and/or suicidal – it only _seems_ that way.

But really, there’s a method to Tommy’s madness.

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch,” Minho concludes.

“Make sure to hit the water feet first,” Thomas instructs them. “Keep your arms at your sides. Make yourselves as streamlined as possible. And we also need a running start.”

They back away several feet, broken glass crunching audibly beneath their boots.

“You sure about this?” Minho asks apprehensively.

“Not really,” Thomas admits.

Newt and Minho share a speaking look, like _why did we come back for this shank again?_

“Nice pep talk,” Minho says sarcastically.

“Yeah, we’re all bloody inspired,” Newt remarks dryly.

Footsteps returning. More of them this time.

“I think they came back with friends,” Minho says.

Thomas takes a running leap off the ledge. Like shucking numpties, Newt and Minho follow him.

There’s a moment of complete and utter weightlessness. Then gravity takes hold. Newt’s stomach climbs up into his throat. Wind whips at his face. His surroundings race past him like the scenery outside a speeding car. His throat feels raw and painful, but he can’t hear his own screaming over the rushing in his ears.

When they hit the water, Newt doesn’t register the pain at first – only the all-consuming shock of the impact.

His hands feel like they’re burning, scraped raw and bloody from the vines. His leg is agony – he doesn’t dare look at it. Struggling to draw breath hurts and his lungs are burning. His body feels weirdly light and floaty like his consciousness is a helium balloon tethered only by the flimsiest string. His mouth is full of blood.

Despite all his best efforts, he’s still alive.

He sees a blurry figure bending over him, catches a glimpse of dark hair.

_Minho?_

Newt feels lips press into his, and the surprise jolts him abruptly back to the present.

He’s not in the Maze. His lungs are burning because they’re full of water and he is drowning. His body feels weightless and floaty because he _is_ floating. And his vision is dark and blurry because he has his eyes open underwater.

He tastes blood because what little he can make out of the water is murky with blood, which is alarming, but a problem for future Newt.

His leg is still an inexpressible sensation of pain, but it probably isn’t broken.

And it’s Tommy, not Minho, who’s in front of him now.

Tommy has the heel of his hand on Newt’s forehead, tilting his head back. His other hand is pinching Newt’s nostrils closed. His mouth is sealed over Newt’s, forcing air into his airless, waterlogged lungs.

Tommy pulls away. His hands hurriedly unzip Newt’s waterlogged jacket and pull the material off him. Newt lets himself be manhandled, head fuzzy and wracked with acute pain. Tommy gets his arm beneath Newt’s armpits, Newt’s back pressed to the other boy’s back, then swims upwards.

Newt’s head breaks the surface of the water and he sucks in air greedily. Tommy tows him to the edge, where Minho is crouched down and reaching for them. They haul him out of the water and turn him on his side. Someone hits him hard on the back and he starts to retch, vomiting water and the foul, half-digested contents of his stomach.

When he’s finished, Newt’s throat feels blistery. Tommy’s arms are around him. A small part of his brain mourns the fact that he only gets to put his head in Tommy’s lap when he’s either too miserable or jacked out of his mind to properly enjoy it. Tommy’s stitches are torn and his neck wound is bleeding again. His dark hair is dripping and plastered wetly to his forehead.

Newt’s tongue tastes of ash. He inhales experimentally, realizing that the air smells of it too. Soot falls from the sky like fine black rain. The black sky swirls with scarlet smoke. Somewhere nearby, a building is on fire.

“In other circumstances,” Newt says, “this could almost be romantic.”

“You stink of vomit.” Tommy’s fingers touch Newt’s cheek and come away red. “And I’m bleeding all over you.”

“I said in other circumstances, didn’t I?”

Tommy wrinkles his nose adorably. “I think you hit your head.”

Minho makes a rude snorting noise. “Flirt later.”

“We were just talking,” Tommy protests, cheeks going red. _Bloody adorable._

“Doesn’t sound like talking,” Minho says.

Newt frowns. “Doesn’t feel like flirting.”

“Well, if you can still be cheeky, you can’t be too badly injured,” Tommy reasons.

Newt sits up, feeling the world whirl around him as the blood rushes from his brain. Once he no longer feels so woozy, he remembers the blood in the water and looks at the pool. The body of the WCKD soldier floats face down on the surface.

Newt looks at the other two. “Did you two-?”

Minho shakes his head.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says. “We saw him earlier. He didn’t die on impact.”

“Maybe the fall-”

“He passed out from blood loss,” Thomas says, interrupting Minho. “Then he drowned.” Minho and Newt turn to stare at him. “There’s a major blood vessel running down the inside of your elbow,” he explains. “Called the brachial artery. Cut it and you lose consciousness in fifteen seconds. Dead in ninety.”

Newt meets Minho’s gaze. Neither of them says anything, but in that moment, they’re both thinking the same thing. Both of them keep forgetting, or maybe they _want_ to forget, where Thomas came from. But for the first time, Newt can see how Thomas was with WCKD for so long.

Ruthless. Relentless. Calculating.

That’s not all Tommy is, but those are the kind of qualities WCKD would value. And those very same attributes, when turned against WCKD, are devastating in their destructiveness. Newt only has to look around him at the smoking remains of WCKD’s headquarters to know that.

Tommy either doesn’t notice their reactions or pretends not to. “Can you stand?” he asks Newt.

Newt braces his palms against the concrete and tries, but his bad leg buckles and refuses to take any of his weight.

“Minho?” Tommy says.

Minho scoots forward on his knees and rolls up Newt’s pant leg. Newt grits his teeth when Minho’s fingers ghost over the swollen red flesh of his ankle, but he can’t hold in a gasp when the other boy starts prodding at the area around his knee.

“Ow!” Newt makes a noise that is absolutely not a squeak. “Bad touch! Bad touch!”

“You’re hilarious.” Minho looks at Tommy. “Nothing broken. But he’s probably got a torn muscle. We’ll have to-”

“We have incoming,” Tommy says suddenly.

Two figures in WCKD garb are dashing towards them. Newt tenses. Tommy half-rises to his feet. But when one of the guards’ passes beneath a light, Minho suddenly relaxes.

“It’s Gally,” Minho tells them, grinning. “I’d recognize that ugly shuck nose anywhere.”

“Admiring your handiwork?” Tommy remarks slyly.

Newt laughs. “Your what?”

Alby stops in front of them. He looks up at the gaping hole in the side of the building where they’d jumped from – it’s pretty conspicuous. His mouth works soundlessly for a long moment.

“Why,” Alby says. He seems incapable of further speech.

Newt has finally succeeded in turning his oldest friend monosyllabic. He’s one part sheepish and one part smug.

In unison, Newt and Minho point at Tommy.

It’s almost scary, the way they work in tandem – like the three of them make up a puzzle, and Tommy is the missing piece finally slotting into place.

“You guys are nuts.” Gally sounds almost impressed.

“Blame Thomas,” Minho grumbles. “He’s contagious.”

“Are you injured?” Alby asks Newt.

“Oh, I’m bloomin’ fine,” Newt responds scathingly. “I always lie on the ground and writhe in pain. Because it buggin’ relaxes me.”

“No need to bite my head off,” Alby says. “I was just asking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is in Alby's POV. Minho & Thomas were supposed to go off somewhere together, while Alby stayed with Newt.
> 
> Originally, I intended to have that chapter in Minho's POV. But well, you'll figure out pretty quickly what Minho & Thomas are up to, and I wanted to write Alby's POV of what Newt is going through.


	13. The Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please, Tommy, please.”

Newt leans heavily against Alby, a slender arm thrown over the shorter boy’s shoulders, barely able to put any weight on his bad leg. His pale hair is white with ash and his face is drawn tight with pain, although it briefly twists to an annoyed look when he bats a hovering Minho away. Thomas is holding a bloodstained cloth to his neck. Gally stands a ways off, fires a Flare gun in the air, then jogs back to the group.

“Not long now,” Gally promises. “Hang in there, Newt.”

Newt is shivering. His jacket is missing and he’s only in a T-shirt.

“Where’s your jacket?” Alby asks. He’d offer Newt his own, but his hands are occupied stopping his oldest friend from just keeling over.

“Thomas stripped him,” Minho answers.

“He _what_?” Alby hopes Minho is joking.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “To save him from drowning. His clothes were too heavy.”

“How can you say that, Tommy?” Newt deadpans, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I thought we shared something special together.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“You were the one who kissed me.”

“That was underwater CPR.”

Newt cocks an eyebrow. “I was stuck at the bottom of that pool and the first thing that popped into your mind was a non-consensual kiss?”

Thomas shrugs. “I have a fetish for gentlemen in distress.”

“Please,” Gally says. “Make it stop.”

“You think this is hard?” Minho says. “I’ve been dealing with this klunk all day.”

Soon they hear the rumbling of an approaching Berg. It descends swiftly between buildings, crushing some of WCKD’s fancy decorative outdoor pot plants as it touches down. The five of them trudge up the ramp and into the Berg, where Vince and Brenda are waiting for them, looking none too happy.

“Personal escort by the head honcho,” Minho mumbles, quietly enough that only Alby and Newt hear. “We’re really moving up in the world.”

_I don’t think they’re here for the likes of us_ , Alby thinks, giving a sidelong look to Thomas, who falters at the sight of Brenda’s thunderous expression.

Alby sets Newt down on the floor. Newt’s expression eases a little bit when Alby straightens his leg out.

“Our Lord and Savior,” Jorge says from the pilot’s seat. His voice is richly amused.

Thomas sighs. “You heard.”

“The whole city heard.” Vince crosses his arms. “No need to ask why you took so long. Are you done trying to martyr yourself now?”

“You should have left without me,” Thomas says.

Brenda slaps him so hard his entire upper body snaps to the side and he falls to one knee.

“Brenda, please don’t injure him any more,” Vince says. “He looks like he’s already bled halfway to death.”

“Oh, Tommy has learned better now.” Newt’s jaw is gritted. His eyes flash from a combination of pain and anger. “Haven’t you, Tommy?” he asks dangerously.

Thomas picks himself up and turns back to Brenda, looking like he’s bracing himself for another slap. He looks thoroughly flummoxed when she instead wraps her arms around his middle and squeezes tightly.

“I take it I’m forgiven?” Thomas looks down at the top of her head, expression hopeful. “That was quick. Usually, I have to grovel for forgiveness for at least a week. Can you tell me what I did so I can do it again? Not all the time, of course. I’ll save it for special occasions – like birthdays and New Year’s.”

“God, you never shut up.” Brenda steps back. “I’m pretty sure Jesus was never this annoying.”

“I’m not Jesus.”

“And you reek of blood.”

“My new cologne,” Thomas says. “It’s called Eau de Fresh Injury.”

“I’m not sure I like it,” Brenda says.

“I’m not too crazy about it either,” Thomas says casually. “Just taking it out for a spin.” The ramp closes and the Berg starts to rise in the air. “Oh. And I’m pretty sure my boss just fired me,” he adds.

“I thought we killed all your bosses,” Jorge says.

“You missed one,” Thomas informs him. “Assistant Director Janson.”

“And he fired you?” Brenda says.

“He never actually got the words out, but the general intention was communicated.”

“And you got him turned into a shucking Crank,” Minho offers. “Pretty sure that’s like, grounds for instant dismissal.”

“That’s true.” Thomas turns to Brenda and adds, sotto voce, “I was professionally negligent.”

“The horror,” Brenda says, straight-faced.

“His loss. Our gain,” Jorge says.

Vince sinks down into one of the copilot chairs, looking exhausted. “Now let’s get out of this fucking awful city.”

“Not yet.” Thomas staggers to the front of the Berg. “There’s something I need to do first.” Vince looks about to object. “It won’t take long.”

Newt tries to stand up, blanches, then sinks back down again. “Tommy-”

“I’m not going to go back,” Thomas assures him. “I’m not.” He locks eyes with Brenda. “I can’t just walk away.”

“You should,” Brenda says.

“I know,” Thomas says. “But I can’t.”

Brenda’s expression softens into something indefinable – a mixture of pity and understanding and acceptance.

Thomas points to something through the windshield. “Set us down there, Jorge.”

Newt tries to get up again, but Alby gets a hand on his shoulder and forces him back down. “Newt, man, you can’t even stand.”

“I can lean,” Newt says glibly. “Leaning comes right before standing.”

“Stop being dismissive,” Alby snaps.

“Only when you stop being patronizing!” Newt retorts, not backing down. “I know my own limits, Alby.”

“No, you don’t, slinthead,” Alby says. “You’re staying right where you are even if I have to shucking _sit_ on you.”

It’s not an empty threat. Alby’s done it more than once those early days right after Newt broke his leg and was confined to bed rest. Newt looks outraged.

“I’ll come back,” Thomas says, catching Newt’s eye. “Hey. I will.”

Newt looks unconvinced.

“I’ll go with him,” Minho volunteers, which seems to reassure Newt far more.

The blonde boy subsides, though grudgingly. Through the windshield, Alby sees them approaching a tall building. There’s no landing pad, but the rooftop is wide and flat. Before the ramp even finishes lowering, Thomas breaks into a run, Minho hot on his heels. Newt watches them go until they’re out of sight.

Alby squats down. His palm hovers over the material of Newt’s pant leg, silently asking for permission.

“Minho already looked at it,” Newt says. “He thinks it’s just torn muscle.”

“We don’t have ice,” Brenda says. “But I think we have some compression bandages stashed in our first aid kit. That helps right?”

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Thanks, Brenda.”

Newt doesn’t argue when Alby offers to wrap his leg for him. That more than anything tells Alby how badly his friend is really feeling – Glade Mother Newt normally hates having to rely on other people’s help, despite offering everyone his own.

“How did this happen?” Brenda asks.

“I fell,” Newt says curtly. He starts to finger-comb the ash from his hair.

“And why are you soaking wet?”

“I fell into a pool.”

“Jumped.” Alby scoffs. Loudly. “You _jumped_ into a pool.” He turns to Brenda. “Him and Minho and Thomas. Twenty stories high. Like the three shuckiest shuck-faces that ever lived to shuck.”

“Huh,” Jorge says. “Sorry we missed it. Sounds like fun.”

“I know what I’m getting you for your birthday,” Newt says blandly.

“What?” Jorge asks.

“A bloody dictionary. So you can look up the definition of ‘fun’. I don’t think it means what you think it means,” Newt says.

“Are Thomas’s plans always like this?” Gally asks weakly.

“No,” Vince says shortly.

“He’s right,” Jorge says. “They’re normally ten times more dangerous. This is tame.”

“Trust me, you got off easy.” Brenda tousles Newt’s hair playfully, so it sticks up everywhere in damp blonde spikes. “After all this mess is finally over, we can sit down and compare notes. Jorge and I have so much embarrassing material for you, you have no idea.”

Jorge turns to say something to them, but his words are drowned out by a sudden burst of staticky feedback that reverberates throughout the whole city. Alby clutches his ears. For a second, he thinks that it’s the girl from WCKD, Teresa Agnes, trying to convince Thomas to come back again.

But the voice they all hear is Thomas’s.

_“Teresa.”_

His voice is magnified by hundreds of speakers, echoing through the empty streets of the city.

_“I need you to listen to what I have to say,”_ he says. _“Please. Just listen.”_

The wretchedness in his voice is almost a palpable thing – something aching and physical.

_“Everything we dreamed of doing since we were children – we can still do those things, Teresa. Creating the Cure. Saving the world. We **can**. Okay? The world doesn’t have to go down with WCKD. I won’t let it. I know you won’t either. There’s still a chance for us. And this time, we can be better than WCKD… this time, we can do it **right**.”_

It feels like the whole city is holding its breath.

_“Come with me, Teresa.”_

At the front of the Berg, Jorge and Vince instantly erupt into agitated whispers. Brenda is the only one who looks unsurprised.

_“I don’t know where to go from here. But I want to find out. I want to try. You told me you did, too.”_

Alby looks at Newt. The blonde boy is completely frozen. There is unmistakable hurt in his eyes.

_“Your birthday. The rooftop. My necklace,”_ he says. _“You know where to find me.”_

It ends there.

It’s as if an explosion goes off inside the Berg. Vince and Jorge both start talking at once.

“He’s insane!”

“He can’t bring her along!”

“He doesn’t even trust this girl, and now he wants to take her back with us to Safe Haven?”

“How does he know she won’t betray us at the first opportunity?”

“Out of his goddamn mind!”

“Vince,” Alby says. “Can he do this?”

“He’s the bloody Cure now, isn’t he?” Newt says, and there is unmasked bitterness in his voice. “He can probably do whatever he bloody hell wants.”

Alby puts a hand on his shoulder, but Newt shrugs off the touch. His expression is closed off.

“This is Thomas.” Brenda looks at the two grown men wryly. “Are you really surprised? His damsel in distress fetish goes _oh so well_ with his white knight syndrome.”

“I thought he had a gentleman in distress fetish,” Gally says. Newt’s face turns sour.

“It’s an equal opportunity fetish,” Brenda says. “I don’t think Thomas is that choosy.”

“Someone drag him back here!” Vince orders. “We’re leaving. Cure or not, we are not letting _Teresa Agnes_ anywhere near our home.”

Gally already has one foot off the ramp when the speakers turn back on.

_“Tom?”_

Husky, for a girl’s voice. Almost strident. Something about it reminds Alby of frosty autumn leaves. It doesn’t leave a very friendly impression.

_“Teresa?”_ Amazement. Gratitude and relief. Longing so sharp it’s painful. _“Teresa, where are you?”_

_“I’m not coming, Tom.”_

“Oh,” Brenda says, soft and sad. “Oh, no, Thomas.”

_“What are you talking about? Teresa, you can’t stay here.”_

_“I have to. Tom, the people in this city need me. None of them are Immune. They need the Cure more than a civilization of Immunes does.”_ A pause. _“They need **you** more.”_

_“I wasn’t- of course, I wasn’t planning on abandoning them. But Teresa, you don’t have the Cure-”_

She cuts him off. _“I have your blood.”_

_“Not enough to last.”_

_“It will last long enough for us to figure out how to mass-produce it.”_

_“You don’t know that.”_ He sounds desperate. _“There’s no guarantee. If we work with the Right Arm-”_

_“Work with them?”_ She makes a scoffing noise. _“Work with the people who invaded our home? Who butchered our people-”_

_“We butchered **them**_ _first, remember?”_

_“And that’s your answer to everything, is it?”_ Her voice is full of scorn. _“Whatever they do, it’s not that bad because we’ve done worse? An eye for an eye makes the world go blind, Thomas. People died today because of you. Good people. That wasn’t justice. It was murder, plain and simple.”_

_“Tell me where you are, Teresa.”_ He sounds panicked. _“I’ll find you.”_

_“If you do that, then I’ll have to bring you in,”_ she says calmly. _“I’ll take you back to what’s left of WCKD. I need the Cure, Tom, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to have it.”_

_“I don’t believe you,”_ he chokes out, after a moment of horrified silence. _“Teresa. I don’t. Believe. You. WCKD is gone. Ava is dead. Janson is worse than. I am all you have **left**.”_

Her voice turns sad. _“I can’t save someone I love at the expense of the world. I won’t.”_ A beat. _“I’m not **you** , Tom.”_

Alby looks reflexively at Newt at that, realizing only after he does it that everyone else on the Berg has done the same.

_“And I-”_ She falters. _“Tom, I don’t know who I’d be without WCKD.”_

_“I don’t know who I’d be without you.”_

_“I guess you’ll have the chance to find out soon.”_ She takes a shaky breath. _“I wasn’t very good at it… but I did love you.”_

He sounds stricken. “ _Don’t say it like that_.”

_“Like what?”_

_“Like you’re saying goodbye.”_

Her breath hitches audibly. _“Do you regret it? What you did to us?”_

A long pause.

_“I made my choice,”_ he finally says. _“I chose my side. I did what I thought was right – and I’d do it again.”_

_“So would I.”_ She sounds tearful. _“Goodbye, Tom.”_

There’s nothing but silence after that – a dense and unnatural quietness blanketing all of them.

Alby snaps out of his paralysis when Newt tries to stand again. “Hey, lie back down. Your leg-”

Newt shoves him away. “Thomas – he’s going to go back.”

“Minho will stop him,” Alby reminds him. “You don’t have to go.”

“Yes,” Newt says. “I do.”

Newt looks at him – he’s wearing the same expression he did when he and Minho told Gally and Alby that Thomas was taken by WCKD. _“I’m going back for him,”_ Newt said, still clutching the bloodied knife. Deliberate and immovable. No reservation or indecision.

Whatever else you can say about Newt, he knows what he wants. And he’s not shy about going after it.

“Fine,” Alby says, feeling aggrieved. “Then I’m coming with you.”

He helps Newt to his feet, then helps him limp down the ramp and across the roof. Thankfully, they don’t have to go far to find Minho and Thomas – the sound of Minho yelling can be heard through the first door they come across. Inside is a room lined floor to ceiling with blacked out monitors, like some sort of surveillance center.

Thomas is staring vacantly, his dark eyes lifeless and Crank-like, not seeming to register Minho’s yelling at all. It’s pretty creepy. But at the sight of Newt, he rouses himself enough to say, “You shouldn’t be…”

He trails off, apparently unable to decide what exactly Newt shouldn’t be doing.

“She’s not coming, Thomas,” Minho says.

“I can’t leave without her.” Thomas’s eyes are wild and desperate. “I can’t, Minho. I have to go back-”

“Tommy, no,” Newt says. “You can’t.”

Thomas barely seems to hear him, glassy eyes fixed on a particular point in midair. “-I have to see her. I have to explain-”

Minho looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to throttle him. Alby can relate.

“You heard her,” Minho says. “She wants to turn you into a human blood bank.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Then she was bluffing. You don’t _know_ Teresa, Minho. She wouldn’t- not to _me_ -”

Minho seems to lose his patience, grabbing the younger boy and shaking him hard enough to snap his head back. “Shucking _listen_ to me, Thomas. You don’t want to believe it, but she will.”

Newt takes one step forward, reaching out for Thomas, and his bad knee buckles beneath his weight. Alby grabs him before he hits the floor. “Newt!” Alby says.

Thomas is staring at Newt. He looks like he wants to move closer, and also simultaneously like he wants to get as far away from him as possible. He’s full of kinetic energy – shifting from foot to foot, swinging his hands at his sides, biting his lip.

Any moment now, Alby expects him to bolt.

If he does, it will probably be the last any of them will ever see him again.

“Tommy,” Newt gasps. His face is green-tinged and he sways dangerously. “Please, Tommy, _please_.”

For a long moment, Thomas just stares at him. Then all the energy seems to drain from him at once. Woodenly, he gives a barely perceptible nod.

Minho grabs Thomas and steers him briskly past them and out the door. Alby and Newt follow at a slower pace. Up the ramp and into the Berg, where Minho deposits Thomas into an empty seat. Alby eases Newt back down to the floor where he can stretch his leg out.

It’s a sign of how miserable and shell-shocked Thomas looks that no one, not even Vince, starts in on him about the earlier thing with Teresa. The takeoff is entirely silent.

Then Thomas starts to cry.

He’s an ugly crier. Loud and messy. Face blotchy. Mouth open wide and lips pulled back from his teeth. Hideous wailing and unignorable screaming.

Newt and Minho glance helplessly at each other. Everyone else averts their gazes.

If Alby is at all capable of feeling more pity for Thomas than he already does, he would feel it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest. How many of you looked at the chapter title, looked at the chapter summary, and then panicked?
> 
> XD
> 
> Also, I read the "equal opportunity fetish" thing from somewhere. I can't remember where. I thought it was funny. XD


	14. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t give up. I won’t let you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About last chapter:
> 
> So I hate love triangles.
> 
> I mean, I REALLY hate love triangles. When I browse through AO3 fics, I specifically set my filter to EXCLUDE the 'Love Triangle' tag. That's how much I hate it.
> 
> I can't tell you how EMBARRASSING it is to me that I ended up writing a fic that includes what is arguably a love triangle. SHAMEFUL.
> 
> The way I imagine it, Thomas will never stop caring about Teresa, but he will also always be drawn to Newt. And if I kept Teresa in this story, I foresee this story becoming several chapters longer, just because of the relationship drama.
> 
> And because I very vehemently do NOT want to write relationship drama, I had to take one pairing out of the picture - WITHOUT killing one of the love interests, because that is SO lame.
> 
> It was most in-character for Teresa to stay behind because all along, she wanted to save the world - that's always been her number one priority, with Thomas coming in a close second.
> 
> My personal headcanon is that Teresa finds a way to mass-produce the Cure. So now, the Cure is being distributed by both the Right Arm and the new WCKD, led by Teresa. Thomas and Teresa each know that the other is alive, they know what the other is doing, but they don't see each other for many, many years.
> 
> Eventually, when they're both adults and the Flare is completely eradicated, I imagine Newt would convince Thomas to seek closure, and they'd meet one last time, forgive each other, and then go their separate ways.
> 
> About THIS chapter:
> 
> I'm not really happy about it. I'm used to writing dialogue chapters or chapters where a lot of action and things happen. This chapter is in Newt's POV, and it's a lot more introspective than what I'm used to writing.
> 
> Introspective chapters are the worst.
> 
> :(
> 
> Let me know if you hate it.
> 
> Onwards!!!

Newt lingers at the threshold, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the doorframe. Not announcing his presence just yet. Content just to watch.

Gas lamps hang from the gabled ceiling and fat waxy candles burn on the tops of counters and tables, giving the interior of the med-cabin an orangey, summery glow. The room smells of herbs and antiseptic, and jasmine from the scented candles. Yesterday it was lemons. The day before, roses.

Tommy’s bed is the furthest from the entrance. Literally, his bed. A wooden plaque with _Thomas_ carved into it has been nailed to the headboard – Gally’s contribution to the running joke that since Tommy has occupied it practically every day since he got here, it might as well have his name on it.

The cut across Tommy’s neck is almost completely healed by now. There’s just a faint red line marring his skin, like a twist of red wire. There are patches of livid bruising in the crook of his elbow from needles, like dark spots on an apple’s white flesh. Apart from that, he looks pristine. A bit tired and skinnier than usual, but the peak of physical health.

The _real_ injuries are internal, hidden from every eye except Tommy’s own.

Jeff, who’s restocking the medicine cabinet, gives Newt a smirk. And Newt realizes that he’s been standing there, goggling at Tommy like a shucking creep for nigh on ten minutes now.

He lets the curtain fall shut behind him and clears his throat. Tommy turns. He doesn’t smile. He’s rarely smiled since they left the Last City behind them – since they left _Teresa_ behind them. But something in his lovely dark eyes seems to brighten at the sight of him.

It makes Newt feel self-conscious. He’s spent the entire day in the fields out in the sun and he’s very aware of how grimy he is. He is covered in sweat and probably stinks. He’s washed his hands, but there are still stubborn pieces of dirt clinging to his nailbeds.

It’s _bloody_ ridiculous. This is Tommy. Not some girl.

Newt grins at him, crosses the room, and is about to plop into his usual chair when he sees the new addition to it. The chair has his name on it. A plaque similar to Tommy’s, except the carving on it reads _Newt_.

_Oh, very funny._

“Gally?” Newt asks.

“And Minho,” Tommy says.

He’s rhythmically squeezing a sponge ball. Faded yellow and with a cheeky cartoon face – a red tongue sticking out and one eye squinted shut. There’s a whole box somewhere with a dozen different faces. The younger kids love playing with them. Vince calls them ‘emojis’, whatever the hell that means.

“You’re early,” Tommy says.

“Don’t feel like going to the bonfire today. Figured you wouldn’t mind keeping me company.” Newt looks at the doctor overseeing the blood donation. “He’s almost done, right?”

“He can take it easy today,” the doctor says. When Tommy opens his mouth to object, the doctor shakes his head. “You’re owed a break, Thomas.”

A WCKD doctor, Newt thinks. The doctor isn’t particularly memorable – an ordinary face and an unremarkable voice. Newt doesn’t recognize him, not at all. But he can tell the doctor used to be WCKD by the guilty way he curves in his shoulders, and the way he can’t quite meet Newt’s eyes now and yet chatted easily enough with Thomas a few minutes ago. In stark contrast to the adults in the Right Arm army, he capitulates too easily to Newt’s request.

Newt recognizes it because it’s the same sort of culpability that makes Tommy shrink back when the Gladers or other Immune kids approach him. Tommy is a hero and one of them to boot. But he can’t so much as look at the other Munies without folding in on himself with crippling self-condemnation.

They step out of the med-cabin and Tommy flinches back at the sun shining right in his eyes, shielding his face with one hand. Newt places a hand on his elbow, feeling the heat of his skin, and nudges him in the direction of the shore. They set off.

Their little settlement is bustling with activity. In actuality, there’s nothing ‘little’ about it any longer. Newt fondly remembers the first time he saw this place – including the fifty Gladers and excluding the adults in the Right Arm, there was less than a hundred Immunes living together. That number has steadily grown throughout the next six months, in part thanks to the boy walking next to him right now.

The cluster of med-tents is downwind of the kitchens, where Frypan works. Mingled with the saltiness of the sea breeze is something aromatic. The Builders, including Alby and Gally, are clustered at the edge of the jungle, where they’ve knocked down a section of trees. Minho is a Scavenger – part of a team of people who takes trips to the mainland in search of anything they can’t find or catch or grow on their island.

It reminds Newt of the Glade but surrounded by an open sea instead of four giant walls. They’re still doing pretty much what they did in the Glade, only now they’re doing it because they choose to, and not because they have to.

It’s home.

They pass the Builders – a few dozen muscled bare-chested men, and a handful of wiry tough-looking women who look like they can knock Newt’s teeth out with just one punch. Gally is nose-to-nose with a grizzled older man, having a loud carrying argument about the best method to expand the dorms.

Alby waves at them from where he’s sitting on a tree stump. “Newt,” he greets, taking a swig from his canteen. “Thomas, surprised to see you out and about.”

Thomas smiles wanly, says nothing in return.

While the Gladers seem to thrive in the Safe Haven, Thomas seems to be wilting. He gets along well enough with Clint and Jeff during the few hours a day he’s in the med-cabin for his blood donation. But otherwise, he keeps to himself and keeps away from everyone else, often wandering aimlessly around the uninhabited parts of the island. Only Newt, Minho, Brenda, and Jorge can draw him out of his shell, but their duties keep them busy most of the time.

“You look loads better.” Alby gives him a gruff once-over. “You know, Newt refused to even leave your side at first. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t even bathe. Be glad you were unconscious those first few days because the smell was unbelievable.”

“You never told me that,” Thomas says to Newt, sounding amused.

There’s nothing funny about it. Right as they were leaving the Last City, Thomas crossed some sort of mental threshold and descended into hysterics, clawing at his neck. They had to sedate him to stop him from hurting himself. After the first tranquilizer wore off, Thomas complained about the severe pain in his neck until the medics shot him full of drugs again, worried more activity would aggravate the injury and cause permanent nerve damage. This went on for several days until they wised up and realized he was faking it.

“Sat by your sickbed,” Alby says slyly. Newt feels himself flushing. “Held your hand. Wiped your head with a wet cloth. Whispered sweet klunk in your ear.”

“Alby,” Newt groans. “Bloody slim it.”

“You _definitely_ never told me any of that,” Thomas says.

“We’re leaving,” Newt announces. Alby roars with laughter. Newt grabs Thomas’s wrist and tows him away, towards the waterline.

“He looks happier,” Thomas notes. “Happier than he was in the Glade anyway.”

Newt scoffs. “Hard to be _happy_ in the Glade. But yeah, I suppose.”

“Alby always liked the ocean,” Thomas muses, almost to himself.

“He did?” Newt forces his voice to stay even and smooth. It’s happening less and less frequently, Tommy’s little slip-ups about the past. “Somehow, I can’t imagine WCKD taking us out on seaside field trips.”

“We snuck out to the roof,” Thomas says. “Of course, we got caught immediately, so it was just the once. But we must’ve been close to the sea because we could hear the waves in the distance… Alby told me it was worth the punishment just to hear the sound of the ocean.”

“You were friends?” Newt says. That’s strange. Tommy doesn’t treat Alby the same way he treats Newt and Minho, or even little Chuckie.

“Not really. He was more your friend than mine.”

“You didn’t like him?” Newt guesses. Not everyone likes Alby – some people think he’s too harsh, too impatient, too rough.

“I liked him.” Tommy sounds rueful. “I just don’t think he liked me.”

“Why?” Newt wonders. “He doesn’t seem to have a problem with you now.”

Tommy shoots him a pointed look. “I used to be on Team WCKD, remember?”

They walk the rest of the way in silence.

Grass transitions to sand as they arrive at the beach. The wet sand is squishy and sinks beneath their feet, not doing Newt’s limp any favors – thank God they’re finally out of the bloody Scorch. Newt has never hated anything like he hates the shucking desert. Except maybe WCKD, and even that is a toss-up.

The open water is dotted with marine vessels of all types. There’s Vince’s rusty behemoth of a ship. There are fleets of fishing boats anchored at the wharf. There’s an eclectic collection of multi-hulled trimarans, luxury yachts, racing boats, and one ferry – tethered to the docks. There’s also a handful of rowboats and rafts bobbing in the shallows. Newt snags Tommy’s hand and tows him to a raft – one of the larger ones built with multiple layers.

The sun is starting to set once they’re out in the water, painting the backdrop of the sky and sea in watercolors of oranges and pinks and purples. Tommy is staring, but his eyes are glazed over. His mind is more than a thousand miles away, straining to reach Teresa in the Last City.

Tommy gets like this sometimes – times when Newt has to repeat himself several times before his words penetrate Tommy’s brain. When everything gets too much, he wraps himself in an impenetrable barrier of nothingness, where he sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing.

But he betrayed WCKD after Newt’s accident. Saved his life. Got him out of the Maze. Cured him. Trusted Newt to hold a knife to his throat. Left Teresa behind.

Whatever it is Tommy feels for Newt, it’s not nothing.

Newt rests his hand over the other boy’s. Tommy’s forehead wrinkles and some of the fogginess in his eyes clears away.

Newt squeezes his fingers. “Focus on me, Tommy,” he murmurs.

They’re sitting face-to-face, so close their hair brushes each other’s foreheads. Newt can count every freckle on his skin. The orange light reflecting off the glimmering seascape turns Tommy’s brown irises the same gold as the distant sunlight.

Something flickers in Tommy’s eyes like shutters reopening. “I don’t know why you still put up with me,” he says.

“You saved my life,” Newt reminds him. “Repeatedly.”

“I put it in danger,” Tommy says. “Repeatedly.”

“I remember that part a bit differently than you do,” Newt says. “Now hush.” He nudges Tommy’s chin with a finger, turns it to the sunset. “We’re gonna miss it.”

They watch the sunset while Newt brings out the food he packed in his satchel. Tuna salad wrapped in lettuce. Two boiled eggs. A jar of raw almonds. Slices of tinned apples which they eat with sticky fingers. Even with a strong sea breeze and surrounded on all sides by water, it’s a hot night, so the cold dinner is nice.

“Brenda and Jorge are planning on leaving soon. That’s what those boats are for.” Tommy nods at the flotilla of speed boats and yachts. “Everyone in Safe Haven is either vaccinated or Immune. Brenda and Jorge are gathering teams. They’re going back into the Scorch, giving the Cure to anyone who needs it.”

A tense ball forms in the pit of Newt’s stomach. “Do you want to be going back with them?”

“I want to be doing _something_.” Tommy sucks distractedly at his fingers, licking the sweetness away. Newt’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue. “Everyone here still looks at me like- like- you know how they look at me, Newt.”

Newt does. Everyone in Safe Haven looks at Tommy like he’s their walking, talking miracle Cure. Because he is. He’s a symbol now. Not a person. Not a teenager. Not someone as young and scared and shucking lost as everyone else is. He’s not allowed to be. He’s the sole reason getting the Flare is no longer a death sentence. Hell, Newt would know.

“What did you plan for after we took down WCKD?” Newt asks.

Tommy picks at a splinter of wood on the paddle. “I didn’t.”

Somehow, it doesn’t come as a surprise.

Maybe Newt knew all along. Maybe he suspected when Tommy kept trying to go back, when he kept insisting Newt and Minho leave him behind, when he became increasingly reckless, when he pressed a knife into his own throat until it bled and dared Janson to call his bluff.

Or maybe Newt just knows, intimately, what it looks like when someone has given up.

Because the truth is, Tommy never planned for an _after_ at all.

He planned to go down with WCKD in a blaze of glory – clipping all emotional loose ends neatly in the bud.

He gave Newt his freedom and a home, a Cure and a future, his memories and his sister. Everything Newt ever wanted gift-wrapped to him in a neat little bow and with a flutter of pretty eyelashes.

He gave Newt a kiss – and then he went back. To WCKD and to Teresa and to die.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says.

Newt jolts, wondering if Tommy has somehow read the thoughts on his face. “Sorry for what?”

“What I said to Teresa in that broadcast, about offering to let her come with us.” Tommy looks at him. As the sun disappears beneath the horizon, the fading light makes his eyes glow amber. “I hurt you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I _never_ mean to. But I also seem to keep doing it anyway. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Newt says. “But by all means, keep going.”

Tommy’s lips quirk. “It was tactless,” he says. “Brenda says that I don’t- that I don’t _think_ when it comes to you and Teresa. The only thought running through my head at the time was that going through it once with _you_ was bad enough – I didn’t want to spend the next three and a half years missing _her_.”

Newt doesn’t know quite how to feel about that. He’s torn between being selfishly glad that he’s had such an impact on Tommy and a smarting resentment that Tommy was willing to fight for Teresa when he hadn’t for Newt. It’s unfair, Newt knows. They were just kids when he was sent into the Maze. Nothing Tommy could have done would have made a difference, except maybe get him sent up with them.

“Why did you kiss me?” Newt asks when he finally manages to unstick his throat.

“You kissed me back.”

“Do I sound like I’m complaining?” Newt washes his sticky fingers in the saltwater lapping at the raft.

Tommy copies him. Beads of saltwater roll down his arms in rivulets. “I thought it was my last chance for-” He falters. “For a lot of things. I thought I was going to die.”

“Hoped,” Newt corrects him. “You _hoped_ you were going to die.”

He catches the play of emotions over Tommy’s face – dismay followed by mortification and finally a bolt of distilled _hurt_. He watches Newt with the dark, wary eyes of a cornered animal.

“Tomorrow,” Newt says. “You’re joining Minho’s team to the mainland.”

Tommy doesn’t have the sheer strength or bulk needed for Builder work like Alby or Gally. But he’s _fast_. He’s quick on his feet and he doesn’t lose his head in a crisis.

And, despite all evidence to the contrary, he also has a knack for survival.

If they were still in the Glade, Tommy would have made a good Runner. As it is, the closest thing to Runners they have here in Safe Haven is Minho’s Scavengers.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to leave.” Tommy frowns.

“What?” Newt says. “Tommy, this isn’t a prison. Vince wouldn’t-”

“I know he wouldn’t.” Tommy _rolls his eyes_ at him. “Come on, Newt. I’ve known Vince longer than you have. He won’t force me to stay here, but he doesn’t need to. I’m not stupid. What’s going to happen if I go haring off and get the only known source for the Cure eaten by Cranks because I wanted an adrenaline rush?”

“You’re more than the Cure.”

“I know,” Tommy says tiredly. “That doesn’t make it untrue.”

“Then you can join me,” Newt decides.

“What? Working with the crops?”

“You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin’ up. Plain and simple.” Newt leans forward, takes hold of Tommy’s chin, and forces their gazes to meet. “You can’t give up. I won’t let you.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.

“You’re having the Swipe removed tomorrow, aren’t you?” Tommy asks, apropos to nothing.

Newt releases his chin, but Tommy wraps his fingers around his wrist before he can pull back. They’re still close enough to kiss.

“Yeah.” Newt’s voice rasps out of him.

“ _After._ ” Tommy squeezes his wrist. “If you get your memories back and nothing changes-”

“Nothing will,” Newt insists.

“Then ask me again tomorrow.” Tommy releases his wrist. A hint of a cheeky smile plays over his mouth. “But fair warning… I don’t really know anything about gardening.”

Tommy offers to row them back to shore. Newt passes the time by watching the play of muscles on Tommy’s arms and back through the thin material of his T-shirt. Tommy rows in silence, with swift and sure movements, but Newt can tell there’s a lot on his mind.

They beach the raft. As Newt steps back onto the sand, Tommy pulls out something from his pocket and presses it into the taller boy’s palm.

It’s a handsome signet ring made of rose gold and monogrammed with the initials _JN_. The band is engraved with ornate motives. It looks old, probably an antique.

“What’s this?” Newt asks. On impulse, he tries it on. The ring fits comfortably on his ring finger, which for some reason, surprises him. 

“You gave it to me the second to last time we spoke to each other.” Tommy smiles – a small pained looking thing. “Actually, I think it’s more accurate to say that you threw it in my face.” He shrugs. “It belongs to you. I’m just giving it back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made Thomas passively suicidal.
> 
> Who saw this coming?
> 
> I dropped a lot of hints. Especially that one line in Chapter 6 - "I should have died" - I thought I gave it away then.
> 
> XD
> 
> There's also a bit of role reversal here - the LAST bit of role reversal, I promise you. In movie canon, it's Newt who's suicidal (they say it in a deleted scene) and Thomas who gives him hope and a reason to keep going. In my fic, Thomas was actively hoping to get killed off in that last fight, and it's Newt who won't let him give up now.
> 
> The next chapter is the epilogue.
> 
> [edit] Minor edit in the second last paragraph.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kid!Thomas is a little shit.  
> 'Bacia il Cuoco' is Italian for 'Kiss the Cook'.
> 
> Alternately, Thomas and Newt roll around in bed a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the last chapter:
> 
> A minor edit in the second last paragraph.
> 
> It now reads: ~“What’s this?” Newt asks. On impulse, he tries it on. The ring fits comfortably on his ring finger, which for some reason, surprises him.~
> 
> About THIS chapter:
> 
> Scratching my head wondering HOW THE EPILOGUE TURNED OUT TO BE THE LONGEST CHAPTER IN MY FIC.
> 
> It's almost 6K words, that's two or three times the length of one of my regular chapters.
> 
> I can't even break it down into two chapters, because the flow won't feel as good unless you read the whole thing all at once.
> 
> *facepalms*
> 
> You might also have noticed that this thing is now part of a series.
> 
> No, there will not be a sequel or a prequel. But I will be posting a fic containing all my one-shots, some of them relating to this fic - as in my AUs of this AU. There were plenty of things I considered doing differently when writing this, and these one-shots will explore those universes if just one or two things were just the slightest bit different.
> 
> Be sure to subscribe if you're interested. XD
> 
> Also, this fic is not compliant with TFC. It is also not compliant with the mini-comic Origins. I planned out this story back before I even knew there WAS a mini-comic.
> 
> Now onwards! And enjoy!

_“You’re my big brother. You’re supposed to be the one comforting me.”_

_“I love you, Lizzy. I love you so much.”_

_They’re pressed cheek to cheek, both of them crying. Lizzy is clutching his hand, her much smaller digits curling over his index and middle finger._

Olfaction is the first sense to return to him.

Herbs. The overpowering smell of antiseptic. Lavender perfumed candles. Salty sea air.

His hearing returns second.

The sounds the ocean makes against the shore – a continuum of rushing noises, ebbing and flowing, gently rousing him into a lulled state of relaxed semi-consciousness. Leaves rustling in the wind. Distant laughter. Much closer, he hears low murmuring voices.

Next comes pain.

All at once, he becomes aware of a throbbing area behind his left ear, just covered by his hair – the patch of skin feels dry and pulled tight. His face is warm from the sun. He keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The light is orange through his eyelids.

Finally. Touch.

The soft lumpiness of the mattress beneath his body. The fuzzy thin blanket and the way it scratches against his skin. Someone holding onto his index and middle finger – the smaller, slender fingers are familiar; the rough and calloused skin is not.

He opens his eyes.

The same dark eyes and frizzy blonde hair as his. The same snub nose and sharp jawline.

Sonya.

“Lizzy,” Newt says.

“Sammy.”

His Lizzy.

His baby sister, two years younger and twice as brave.

_God, how could I have ever forgotten you?_

Newt cries as he embraces his little sister for the first time in nearly four years. He squeezes her tight, the way he did when they were little kids, like she’s a teddy bear. Lizzy hugs him back just as fiercely. She’s sobbing as well – pearlescent tears slipping down the apples of her cheeks, the flat of her hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades.

_“Those belonged to my parents,” Tommy tells him._

_Newt cradles the items carefully in his palms. One of them is a large handsome signet ring. The other is a necklace – a pendant made of three interlocking bands strung on a thin metal chain._

_“WCKD let you keep this?” Newt asks enviously._

_It’s the middle of the night. Curfew was hours ago. Newt snuck into Tommy’s single room with a stolen flashlight not long after everyone else fell asleep. The two boys, eleven and ten respectively, huddle together in Tommy’s bed, which is bigger than the dorm bunks the rest of the boys sleep in. They’re lying on their sides, facing each other, sharing the same pillow. A soft, fluffy comforter is pulled up over their heads like a tent._

_“Not at first,” Tommy says. “They took it away my first day here. But I made them give it back.”_

_“How?” Newt asks, a bit awed._

_“They tried to take my name away,” Tommy confides. Newt nods in understanding. “They tried for months and months. But they couldn’t make me forget it. I wouldn’t let them.” Tommy juts his chin forward, defiance and pride swimming in his honey eyes. “My name wasn’t theirs to take away. My parents gave me my name – so only **they** could change it. But Dr. Paige – do you know Dr. Paige?”_

_Newt nods. Dr. Paige is the doctor with pretty reddish-blonde hair. She doesn’t pay a lot of attention to Newt, but she’s always super nice to Tommy and Teresa. All the boys know that Tommy and Teresa are her favorites._

_“Dr. Paige made me a deal.” Tommy fumbles with the flashlight and the beam of light goes haywire. “She said…” He frowns. “I think she said something like – life demands compromises. She said that I couldn’t keep my name, but if I was willing to compromise, she would give me back something of my parents.”_

_Tommy shines the flashlight on the jewelry._

_“See?” Tommy holds up the necklace. Each of the three different colored interlocking bands has a name inscribed on them. But the name on the silver band has been sanded out. “This was my name. I don’t remember what it said anymore. But they gave me back my mom’s necklace and my dad’s ring. And now I know that my mom’s name was Dianne and my dad was called James and my last name started with an ‘N’.”_

_The pedant swings back and forth like a pendulum. Newt thinks he can make out the curve of an ‘S’ on the silver band, or maybe it’s a ‘C’, or even a ‘G’._

_“You just… gave up your name?” Newt says._

_He feels Tommy shrug beside him. “They would have taken it away from me eventually anyway. It doesn’t matter if I fought them off forever – I knew WCKD would have found a way. This way, at least I get to have something to remember my mom and dad by. My old name was just leverage.”_

_Newt feels himself start to tremble. Turning, he buries his face in Tommy’s shoulder._

_“Newtie?” Tommy drops the flashlight, wraps his arms around the blonde in what’s probably supposed to be a hug, but ends up being an awkwardly haphazard splay of prepubescent limbs. It’s endearing. “Noot-Noot?”_

_“I couldn’t keep my name,” Newt says. “I tried so hard to keep it. Maybe if I was stronger like you, I could have used it as leverage too. I could be with Lizzy.”_

_“You **are** strong, Newt,” Tommy insists. “And you’ll see Lizzy again. I know you will. I’ll help you fight for it. Me and Minho.”_

_“Minho fights harder than anyone I know,” Newt reminds him. “And he’s always punished for it.”_

_Tommy rolls his eyes at him. “It’s not about fighting the **hardest**. We’re just kids. WCKD is always going to be stronger than we are. It’s about fighting **smart**. Minho’s problem is that he fights too hard. He’s unpredictable.”_

_“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” Newt asks._

_“WCKD is made up for scientists,” Tommy reminds him. “They don’t **like** unpredictable. The trick is to fight just hard enough – WCKD likes it when we show initiative, when we have conviction.”_

_He uses the words ‘initiative’ and ‘conviction’ like he’s parroting someone – probably Dr. Paige. Newt supposes that Tommy probably knows what he’s talking about – there’s bound to be a reason that Tommy’s managed to stay on WCKD’s good side for so long anyway._

_“I didn’t mean to make you feel sad,” Tommy says, soft and apologetic. He reaches over to take back the ring and necklace._

_“It’s my own stupid fault,” Newt says, evading the younger boy’s hands. He examines the pendant again. “Why three rings?”_

_“It’s a Russian ring. The three rings are made of rose gold, white gold, and yellow gold – past, present, future.”_

_“Are you Russian?”_

_Tommy wrinkles his nose at him. “Do I **sound** Russian?”_

_“How should I know? I’ve never met a Russian before.”_

_“I’ve never met a British before either. And I know you sound British.”_

_“Plonker. That British enough for you?”_

_“Bacia il Cuoco.”_

_“That doesn’t even **sound** like Russian.”_

_“How would you know? You’ve never heard anyone speak Russian before.”_

_Newt jams his fingers into Tommy’s sides, and the ten-year-old boy reels away, giggling and squirming._

_“Ticklish!” Tommy squeaks, red-faced._

_“Shush! Someone will hear us!”_

_“Then stop tickling me!”_

_Tommy retaliates by yanking the pillow out from beneath Newt’s head and then smacking the older boy in the face with it. They wrestle for pillow dominance. Newt finally manages to tangle the other boy in the blankets and wiggles his fingers against Tommy’s stomach._

_“Okay!” Tommy gasps. “You win! You win!”_

_They flump back onto the mattress, giggling and breathless and shushing each other, hopelessly tangled up in the bedding. Newt still clutches the signet ring in his fist. Tommy unearths the Russian ring necklace from its hiding place underneath the pillow. But when Newt makes to hand over the ring, Tommy closes the older boy’s fingers over it._

_“It’s okay,” Tommy says. “You can hold onto it for awhile.”_

_“But it’s your dad’s,” Newt protests. His cheeks feel hot. “It’s important to you.”_

_“So are you,” Tommy says. Newt’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “I trust you to take good care of it for me.”_

_“I will,” Newt promises. “On one condition.”_

_“What?”_

_“Never,” Newt says, “ **ever** bloody call me Newtie or Noot-Noot again.”_

_Tommy lets out a full-body laugh, shaking the mattress. It takes a full minute for him to calm down. “We just have to be patient, Newt,” he says, sounding serious again. “We just have to wait. Grow stronger.”_

_“How? Like you said, we’re just kids.”_

_Tommy meets his eyes. “We won’t be kids forever, Newt.”_

Newt never thought he’d have this.

His previous meet-ups with Lizzy when they were kids were short-lived, fleeting things. Either he would sneak out through the vents to see her in the dark of night, or their reunions were supervised and arranged by WCKD for good behavior – what Tommy referred to as ‘showing initiative’.

Getting to spend the entire morning with her is a luxury he never thought he’d have – especially not after he was sent into the Maze. Every minute feels more precious than gold. Every second stolen.

He has to force himself not to run after her when she leaves to haul in the fishing nets at the docks. Has to remind himself that this is not like every other time before with WCKD. He’ll see his sister again.

This time, they have all the time in the world.

He absent-mindedly touches his ring finger. The signet ring fits him perfectly now – after almost four years, he’s finally grown into it.

“Newt!”

It’s Brenda, marching straight to him like a woman on a mission, her chin-length bangs pulled away from her face by her red scarf. People – teenagers and adults alike – part for her like the Red Sea. She stops in front of Newt and scowls at him, arms crossed.

“Have you been to see Thomas yet?” she demands.

“I’m having just a mite trouble finding him, mate,” he says dryly.

“ _That man._ ” She rolls her eyes in irritation. “Always hiding from his problems.”

“Or running from them,” he adds.

“Well, if I was Thomas, I’d go somewhere I’d think no one would find me, so I can mope around and wonder if all of my friends hate me now,” she deadpans.

“Very helpful.” He suppresses an eye-roll of his own.

As he turns to go, she calls after him, “You know that thing you do with your tongue?”

Newt looks at her quizzically. Brenda runs her tongue over her teeth – imitating one of Newt’s nervous ticks.

“Yeah?”

“Drives Thomas crazy.” She smirks.

That… actually _is_ very helpful.

“And Newt?”

“Yes?”

She hesitates. “Thomas loves you like it was yesterday,” she says. “Don’t break his heart.”

Brenda is gone before Newt can respond.

_Newt’s hands are fisted in the back of Minho’s jacket, yanking him up and away from Thomas. Thomas stays where he is, slightly curled up on the floor, groaning._

_“Minho.” Newt gets between them. “Minho, stop-”_

_“Get out of my face, Newt-”_

_“Minho, you’re going to **kill** him!”_

_“Yes, I am,” Minho snarls. “I’m going to rip his heart out and bronze it like a trophy-”_

_“Minho!”_

_Minho shoves him. “You heard him, Newt. He knew. **He knew.** ” He trembles with barely leashed rage. “All this time, he knew what they were planning on doing to us. Worse than that, he was helping them. Him and Teresa – they’ve been in league with WCKD this whole time.”_

_Minho’s face is painted with fury. But Newt knows him too well – he knows that underneath the protective shell of anger is an ocean of hurt. Thomas was their best friend. Minho put his faith in him, and Thomas let him down – he let both of them down._

_“Newt and I thought you would help us.” Minho looks past Newt, at Thomas, who’s picking himself off the ground. “We thought – there’s no way our **best friend** would ever go along with something that would put us in any real danger. We tried and **tried** to give you the benefit of the doubt. We defended you against everyone else. But Alby was right about you all along, wasn’t he?”_

_Thomas stares at him in silent horror, blood staining his chin. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something. But then the moment passes and he looks away. Minho gives him one last look of repulsed contempt before leaving, slamming the door behind him._

_Newt fiddles with the signet ring sitting on his thumb – the only part of his hand it can stay on without slipping right off. He thought that in time, he might be able to grow into it._

_It’s time he doesn’t have anymore._

_“Minho’s right,” Newt says quietly. Thomas’s face spasms with pain. “Alby was right.”_

_“Newt-”_

_Newt slides the ring off his thumb and flings it spitefully at the other boy. Tommy- Thomas’s hand shoots up and he catches it. One of his eyes is already starting to swell shut._

_“You can have that back,” Newt says coolly. “I don’t want anything made by WCKD.”_

Tommy and Minho are just leaving the communal showers when Newt finally manages to track him down. Tommy has a towel on his head, head turned in Minho’s direction, saying something too low for Newt to pick up. Minho is grinning and Tommy’s lips are upturned.

At the sight of Newt, Tommy stops dead, expression morphing instantly into one of unmistakable dread.

The towel falls off his head.

Newt decides not to take that personally.

Minho doesn’t even break stride. He just slaps a companionable hand on Tommy’s back, hard enough to make him stagger forward.

“Don’t tease him too much,” Minho says to Newt in an undertone as they pass each other. Behind Minho’s ear is a faint red scar from his Swipe operation.

Newt trips him. Minho rights himself easily, shooting him a thumbs-up as he starts to jog backward. Almost immediately, he crashes into Frypan, who’s carrying a cooking pot filled with water. All three – Minho, Frypan, and the cooking pot – go flying in an almost cartoonish fashion.

 _Ah_ , Newt thinks. _Karma. What a bloody marvel._

By the time Tommy rights himself, towel in hand, he’s marginally more composed. Without a word, he falls into step next to Newt, a little bit behind, letting Newt take the lead. They end up at one of the tide pools designated for laundry. At this time of day, it’s deserted.

Tommy’s hair is still damp, sticking out in short dark tufts. Newt reaches up and sets them back to rights, gently finger-combing some of the tangles. Tommy’s hair is soft and silky, and he stays very still beneath Newt’s hands, watching the taller boy with bright eyes. Smoothing over the last unruly strand, Newt steps back.

Tommy speaks before Newt can figure out what to say. “Here.” He holds out something in his hand.

Taking it, Newt realizes that it’s a piece of paper folded into grids. The creases are worn and eggshell-flimsy. It’s obviously been folded and refolded many, many times before. Newt recognizes his own handwriting. He already knows what it says.

_02-16-11-14  
Arendt_

Throat tight. Eyes stinging. The silence stretches out for a long time.

Tommy kept it on him. All these years.

“What took you so long?” Newt asks, a bit plaintively. “If what made you turn was me deciding to-” He still can’t say it. “Then what took you so long?”

Seventeen months.

That’s how long it took for Newt to give up.

Another nineteen months after that, wishing he never survived the fall, wishing Minho never found him in the Maze, wishing he’d been left to the Grievers – death via Griever would have been terrifying and no doubt excruciating, but at least it would’ve been _over._ Nineteen months of stagnation, of ennui, of picking out shards of hope from his heart along with shards of bone from his leg.

“They were watching me,” Tommy says, tone wavering. “They knew you and I were…” He trails off and bites his lip. “I had to bid my time. I had to gain their trust. I had to make Ava Paige think that you were a sacrifice I was willing to make, for WCKD, for the Cure, and once she trusted me completely…”

Newt twists the band on his ring finger. Tommy’s eyes dart down, drawn by the movement. “And this?” Newt says.

“It belongs to you,” Tommy says. “It always has.”

Newt curls his fingers to form a fist and brings it to his mouth. He presses the sun-warmed metal to his lips. There’s a question he’s burning to ask – a question he already knows the answer to. He hopes he’s wrong, but he knows he isn’t.

“You gave the necklace to Teresa.”

It’s not a question.

Tommy nods.

The only things Tommy had left of the parents he adored – and he gave one to Newt and the other to Teresa. Newt’s memento glints from his ring finger. Teresa probably still wears hers around her throat.

And Tommy isn’t someone who makes empty gestures.

“It wasn’t because I loved her more,” Tommy says, low and urgent. “You were gone.” His voice splinters. “You were gone and you _hated_ me. You were in the Maze and out of my reach. You were _impossible_.” He takes a ragged breath. “And Teresa – she was a living breathing girl, and she loved me.”

He’s wringing the towel between his fingers, knuckles clenched white. Newt reaches out and stills his fidgeting. Tommy stops breathing.

“I never hated you,” Newt says.

There were certainly times he _wanted_ to. He definitely _tried_ to. Especially those last few days before the Maze. But he could never quite manage it.

Teresa is gone. She is on the other side of the ocean and out of Tommy’s reach. She is WCKD, and thus an impossibility. And Newt is right here, living and breathing and present. He looks at Tommy and still sees traces of the boy who stole his heart when he was fifteen years old.

Sliding his hand up, he cups Tommy’s jaw with one hand, holds him still. The kiss is barely a press of closed mouths and an exchange of breaths. Newt keeps their foreheads pressed together, their noses brushing. He swipes a thumb over the vulnerable hollow of Tommy’s neck and feels his hammering pulse.

“What was that for?” Tommy asks breathlessly.

“For proving me right.” Newt ducks down again, nipping Tommy’s lips just to feel the other boy’s breath stutter against his mouth. “Even if you took your bloody sweet time doing it.”

“Yesterday,” Tommy says. “You said nothing would change.”

“Oh, Tommy.” Laughter and happiness bubble up from Newt’s chest, clear and fresh as spring water. “ _Everything_ has changed.”

_This time, WCKD puts glass between them._

_“Do you know how many people die from the Flare virus?” Thomas demands. There is still some faint discoloration around his eye. “How many millions? In just one day? For every person they put through the Maze Trials-”_

_“They?” Newt says witheringly. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, in a posture of studied nonchalance. If there’s one thing guaranteed to piss Thomas off, it’s not being taken seriously enough. “Don’t make me laugh. You **are** one of them now, Tommy.”_

_The nickname, thrown out in the space between them like a declaration of war, makes Thomas recoil. It gives Newt a savage sort of satisfaction to see it, to make Thomas feel just a little bit of the hurt and betrayal Newt feels himself._

_“Newt, it’ll be worth it,” Thomas insists. “When all the Trials are done and we find the Cure, all of this would have been worth it.”_

_“It’s a neat little trick you have,” Newt says, in a tone hot enough to blister. “You open your mouth and your little girlfriend’s voice comes out.”_

_He expects more blustering, another weak defense, some hypocritical self-righteousness maybe. But what he doesn’t expect is for Thomas to suddenly be unable to hold his gaze, falling silent. Newt doesn’t expect the guilt on Thomas’s face that he is just a beat too slow in concealing._

_Then Newt understands._

_Oh._

_It shouldn’t matter. Knowing what he does now about where Thomas stands with WCKD, it shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t **matter**._

_It still does anyway._

_“Don’t waste any time, do you?” Newt says. He can’t quite hide the hollowness in his tone._

_“Nothing happened with me and Teresa,” Thomas says._

_“Not **yet** ,” Newt says._

_Thomas looks away, unable to deny it._

_“What if it was **her** about to be sent up into the Maze?” Newt asks tauntingly. There is anger boiling under his skin. His voice shakes with emotion. “Huh? Would you just stand by and let WCKD send her to her possible death?” He pushes off from the wall, advances on the glass. He wishes there was nothing between them so he can black Thomas’s other eye. “What if it was **you**? Would you go quietly?”_

_“Yes,” Thomas says fiercely. “If going in there meant getting closer to finding the Cure, to saving people like my dad-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Even if it meant dying,” he continues quietly, “I’d still do it. So don’t look at me like I’m some sort of murderer or monster. When we find the Cure and the Trials end, all of you will be heroes-”_

_Newt makes a wordless noise so full of ridicule that Thomas falls abruptly silent._

_“So you find a Cure,” Newt says. His anger has crystallized into ice. “ **Then** what?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“WCKD will control it, won’t they? They’ll control everything – who lives and who dies.” Newt makes a derisive noise. “Dying for that kind of world… that’s not heroic – that’s **pathetic**.”_

_For a moment, Newt thinks he’s gotten through to him. “What’s the alternative?” Thomas demands. “We **need** the Cure, Newt. WCKD may not be perfect, but they’re our only option.”_

_“What if they aren’t?”_

_The words hang in the space between them. It’s too late to take them back. Newt passes his hand over the pocket of his jeans, feeling the square wad tucked beneath the fabric._

_Thomas’s eyes are wide. “What do you mean?” he asks, hushed._

_In for a penny… “They call themselves the Right Arm.”_

_Thomas shakes his head slowly, not disagreeing, but confused. “I’ve never heard-”_

_“Of course, you haven’t.” Newt’s hand leaves smudges against the clear glass, his breath fogging up the surface. “You’re WCKD’s prodigal son – Ava Paige is very careful about what kind of information you have access to. The Right Arm is bent on saving the future of the human race too – except they go about it a bit differently than WCKD does… **rescuing** Immunes instead of experimenting on them. My father made contact with them before WCKD killed him – they’ve found a safe haven, a place free from the Flare virus.”_

_He watches the cycle of emotions play out over Thomas’s face. Disbelief. Amazement. Suspicion._

_Hope._

_The door opens and two guards stride in. Their time is up._

_The reinforced glass barrier pulls back into the wall, and Newt **moves**._

_Thomas gasps as Newt slams into him. His back hits the wall and his head smacks against it hard enough to daze him. Newt slips the tiny square of paper into Thomas’s pocket._

_“You’re not like the others,” Newt whispers into his ear. “Don’t let them convince you that you are.”_

_The guards react exactly as Newt wants them to. Prying the two boys apart, one of them forces Newt’s arms behind his back, immobilizing him. The other guard checks Thomas over for injury._

_He doesn’t see Thomas again for three and a half years._

“Frypan’s stew!” Newt quickens his footsteps, keeping Tommy close to his side with a hand on his elbow. “You haven’t had it yet, have you, Tommy?”

“No-”

“Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

“Newt.” Tommy digs his heels in. With all the sand everywhere, it’s not very effective. “I don’t think- everyone else will-”

“What? Remember you? Tommy, it’ll be fine. You went on a run with Minho this morning and he didn’t hate you.”

“That’s different,” Tommy insists. “That was _Minho_. He _wants_ to believe the best in me. So do you.” But he stops trying to pull away. Newt’s hand migrates from Tommy’s elbow, up to his arm, to his shoulder.

By force of habit, the Gladers usually end up migrating to each other during mealtimes. They’re ringed densely around a few campfires. Some of them look up as they pass, calling out to Newt in friendly greetings and casting Thomas lingering looks. The glances aren’t hostile, nor are they tinged with awe the way they were ever since the Last City – the best way Newt can describe them is curiosity edged with respect.

When Alby spots them, he shoots to his feet. Tommy goes wide-eyed and frozen. Conversations fall to a hush.

Alby sticks out his hand. Thomas gapes at him for an awkwardly long moment. Newt nudges him and he gracelessly shakes.

“I’m glad I was wrong about you,” Alby simply says.

And that’s that.

“Budge over and make space,” Newt says.

Everyone scoots. There’s a bit of grumbling, but eventually, space opens up between Minho and Brenda. Newt plops himself down on the sand, back against the log, and pulls Tommy down next to him. If anyone has any thoughts about the way Newt and Tommy are pressed together shoulder to hip, they keep it to themselves. Alby sends Newt a smirk and Minho hides a smile in his drink. A few campfires away, Lizzy sends them a knowing look and raises her drink in a silent toast.

Bowls of stew are handed over. And then everyone else just sort of stares expectantly at the two of them. Thomas shrinks back at the attention.

“Well, don’t stop on our account,” Newt says, fed up. “What are we talking about?”

“The time Minho broke Gally’s nose,” Winston offers quickly. Newt always liked Winston.

“Man.” Minho throws his hands in the air, his drink sloshing around in its jar. “Why is that always the _first_ thing everyone brings up?”

Laughter. And the tension breaks. People break off into their own smaller conversations. As attention drifts away from him, Tommy’s neck and shoulders visibly grow less rigid, although he still kind of looks like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Newt presses their shoulders more firmly together.

“Eat your stew,” Newt tells him.

At the first spoonful, Tommy makes a noise that Newt tries extra hard not to equate to ‘orgasmic’. He’s not very successful.

“So we were running out of the Maze,” Brenda is saying to an avid audience. “Trying to keep this big group of kids alive. And there were Grievers right behind us, Grievers coming up in front of us, Grievers scaling the walls – we were completely surrounded. You couldn’t take a step without stepping on one of those things.”

“We all thought we were going to die,” Jorge interjects.

Brenda buffs her nails with the hem of her shirt. “ _I_ had complete faith in our continued survival.”

“No, I remember you turned to me and you said ‘Jorge, shit, we’re all going to die’.”

“What happened?” Zart asks.

In unison, Brenda and Jorge look at Thomas, who freezes like Bambi in headlights, spoon still in his mouth. Newt tries very hard not to stare at the way Tommy’s mouth is wrapped around the spoon and the movement of his throat as he swallows.

“Thomas?” Clint says.

“Thomas,” Brenda and Jorge confirm solemnly.

“I wish you’d stop telling that story,” Tommy complains. “It wasn’t that funny. I was terrified I was going to witness a mass slaughter.” But he sighs and sets down his spoon. “So. Grievers. They have this tiny chip in their heads that receives instructions – basically, they do what they’re told to do. Without the chip, a Griever just… doesn’t do anything. But if someone managed to piggyback on that wireless signal and hijack the transmission-”

Brenda throws her head back, practically _howling_ with mirth. Jorge wipes what looks like a tear from his eye. “It gets funnier every time,” he says.

“No, it doesn’t.” Tommy frowns at them, but a smile tugs at his mouth. Newt wants to kiss it.

Newt… might possibly be a little drunk.

“What happened to the Grievers?” Billy asks.

Brenda completely loses her ability to formulate speech and just flat out starts cackling.

“They started exploding,” Jorge says. “We thought we were being _bombed_. There were bits of Griever flying everywhere. There was Griever being chucked right in our faces, literally raining from the sky-”

“It took forever to wash off the stink,” Brenda adds.

Everyone is laughing. Newt can admit the thought of exploding Grievers is _very_ gratifying. Tommy hides his face in Newt’s shoulder, and Newt lets his arm curl casually around the other boy’s back.

“You’re laughing at me,” Tommy mumbles, words muffled by his shoulder. Newt turns his head and presses his smile into the other boy’s hair. Tommy smells of salt and wood smoke.

“How-” Gally splutters. “How is it that you let Thomas come up with _any_ plan? _Ever?_ ”

“Gally, one thing you should know about Thomas is that in spite of…” Brenda trails off and gestures widely at Tommy, who emerges from Newt’s shoulder to glare at her. “He usually knows what he’s doing.”

Tommy looks indignant. “You just gestured to all of me.”

“That’s right. I did.” Brenda turns back to Gally. “In spite of _all of him_ , he usually knows what he’s doing.”

“I hate you,” Tommy tells her.

“You don’t, really.”

“Thomas has the luck of the devil, _hermano_.” Jorge nods wisely. “So the best bet is to just do whatever he does… as long as you make sure to let him go first.”

Tommy throws a twig at him, which snags in one of his greying curls.

“So if Thomas jumped off a cliff-” Frypan begins to say.

Newt and Minho catch each other’s eye and immediately break out into laughter, clutching their sides. Jorge starts to choke. Gally slaps his thighs. Alby, mid-swig, sprays alcohol and saliva all over poor Winston. Brenda _shrieks_ , toppling out of her seat and nearly setting her own hair on fire.

“Brenda!” Tommy says loudly. “You’re going to kill yourself!”

Brenda wheezes, batting at her now gently smoldering hair.

“Oh, look!” Tommy says desperately. “Newt! Lizzy’s looking this way!”

“Well, Newt, Minho,” Gally says. “If Thomas told you to jump off a cliff, would you?”

“I’d say so, yeah,” Minho says.

“Evidently, we would,” Newt agrees.

Tommy gives up. “It wasn’t a cliff!” he protests.

“It was a twenty-story drop!” Alby says.

“There was a pool at the bottom!”

“Hitting the water at that height?” Alby says, grinning. “You’re lucky you all didn’t turn into pancakes.”

“ _Context!_ Missing context! There were extenuating circumstances!”

Jorge looks at Brenda. “That’s what he always says,” he says, sotto voce.

“Why is it that we always end up talking about me?” Tommy grumbles. “Can we talk about someone else? Anyone else?”

“Aw. But no one else gets into crazy shit like you do,” Brenda says.

“And also because obviously, the universe revolves around you, Thomas,” Minho informs him seriously.

“I mean.” Winston thinks about it for a moment. “It kinda does?”

“Hey.” Tommy looks around wildly, his gaze landing on Minho. “Remember that time Minho found a giant spider in the boys’ dorms and put it right over Alby’s face while he was sleeping?”

“That was you?” Alby shouts.

Minho jabs an accusing finger at Tommy. “Traitor!”

“Live by the sword, die by the sword!” Tommy yells back.

“Yeah, well…” Minho’s eyes dart all over, searching for an escape. “Winston was the one who hid all of Gally’s clothes that time he had to streak across the Glade naked!”

Gally chokes. “ _What?_ ”

“Minho, you slinthead!”

“It’s every man for himself!”

It eventually deteriorates, predictably, to Gally drawing up a wrestling ring in the sand. Newt has a stitch in his side and his cheeks hurt from laughing. Tommy is still pressed warmly against his side.

“Some ugly shank is going to fall in there and set themselves on fire tonight,” Newt says, nodding at the campfire.

“Then why are you smiling?” Tommy asks.

“I think my face is stuck like this,” Newt admits.

“Comeuppance,” Tommy says.

Newt brushes his knuckles over Tommy’s jaw. “Remember that time you taught all of us to say ‘ _Bacia il Cuoco_ ’ and convinced us it was a Russian swearword?”

“What was it?” Brenda wonders.

“It’s Italian,” Tommy says. “For ‘Kiss the Cook’.”

“And they fell for it?” Brenda chortles.

Tommy gets a dreamy look on his face. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“Oh, this I gotta see.” Brenda rolls herself to her feet and wanders over to the ring of chanting Gladers, leaving Newt and Tommy more or less alone.

Tommy stares at them with a lost look on his face. “Tommy?” Newt says.

He sighs and takes Newt’s hand. Holding Newt’s palm in his lap, Tommy moves the pads of his fingers over the taller boy’s forearm, mapping the pale unmarred skin, like he’s seeking reassurance. Every bit of skin contact makes Newt’s nerves tingle.

“It almost feels too easy,” Tommy says. “Being forgiven.”

Newt raises his eyebrows. “What? You want to be given a harder time of it?”

“Maybe I deserve a harder time of it.”

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make.” Newt lets his fingers trail over the other boy’s collarbone. “You want to know why I forgave you so easily?”

“Yes.”

Newt’s hands frame his face. Tommy looks at him, eyes wide. His hands slide tentatively to rest at Newt’s waist. They’re close enough that Newt can feel Tommy’s hot breath fan out over his cheeks, close enough that when Newt speaks, their lips brush, sending a buzzing sensation through his body.

“I wanted it to be you,” Newt says. “When we finally got out of the Maze, I wanted the person who saved us to be you. And you did, you saved us, you got us out – that’s why I’m not angry.”

Then they’re kissing. Newt’s hands move down to grip Tommy’s arms, one hand coming to rest on Tommy’s chest, right over his heart. Tommy grips Newt’s hip, thumb making broad strokes over the bone. The other hand goes up to frame Newt’s jaw, then travels even higher, into his hair.

They’re interrupted by a chorus of wolf-whistling and sarcastic applause.

“Wow, Newt,” Minho calls out. “Possessive much?”

Newt flips him the bird, triggering another wave of catcalls.

Tommy’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. The top few buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, revealing a hint of tantalizing skin. He gazes back at Newt, eyes soft, then reaches up and smooths down Newt’s hair, now undoubtedly a wild mess. Experimentally, Newt runs his tongue over his teeth, and Tommy’s eyes follow the motion. Newt bites back a smug smirk.

“Shall we join our busybody, voyeuristic friends?” Newt says.

“Those are the only kind of friends we have,” Tommy points out.

“Then I think we bloody well need new friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the epilogue has more Newtmas content than the rest of the fic combined. XD
> 
> Just out of curiosity, who always knew this fic would have a Newtmas ending? As in, without peeking ahead for spoilers, from start to finish, no matter how much Thomesa content I threw at you, there was NEVER a SINGLE SECOND where you doubted this fic would have a Newtmas ending.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me. I hope you enjoyed the story! Make sure to leave comments & kudos!
> 
> XOXOXO


End file.
